


Rock N'Ception

by Mockingj91 (MockingJ)



Category: Inception (2010), RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Inception Big Bang Challenge, M/M, canon child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:46:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MockingJ/pseuds/Mockingj91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘The permanent temptation of life is to confuse dreams with reality. The permanent defeat of life comes when dreams are surrendered to reality.’ ~ James Michener</p><p>When Archy believes Johnny is betraying him (like father like son), he doesn't waste any time employing a dream team to extract the truth. Even if Eames is no longer Handsome Bob, he never left his friends behind, not really. But even he's surprised when the new client turns out to be a man he swore he would never have any contact with again. Armed with his new job title of Extractor, Eames finds himself immersed back into the life he thought he was done with: The Wild Bunch. In the underbelly of London and its rats, the team (Eames, Arthur and Ariadne) struggle with reality…and what the hell is a RocknRolla anyway?</p><p> </p><p>(There is a link in the notes for anyone who hasn't seen or need a re-fresher on RocknRolla)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Inception Big Bang for 2013
> 
> I have never done a Big Bang before, nor have I been writing for very long so constructive criticism is much welcomed. I had a nightmare producing this. Of course as soon as I signed up I would have a million and one other commitments and everything that could have gone wrong with my laptop did. But I did eventually manage to finish, and I hope that readers will at least find it interesting. 
> 
> I have added a post that I made for anybody who has not seen RocknRolla, or needs a re-fresher at
> 
> http://mockingj91.livejournal.com/3259.html 
> 
> I would to thank my amazing beta coruscera. Thank you so much for all your help, you were great! :) And I apologise for being the worst kind of writer, thanks for putting up with me to the end, especially on the last day. 
> 
> Also thank you to Solaya who gave me some great advice at the beginning and was an unofficial cheerleader throughout the challenge. 
> 
> Last but certainly not least my artist lick_j, I thought your art was really great, and thanks for choosing my fic. I hope you like it as much I loved your art. 
> 
> Lick_j art master post is here:   
> http://lick-j.livejournal.com/1063178.html  
> Definitely check it out! 
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Inception, or RocknRolla, and the mentioned song 'Anarchy in the UK' belongs to the Sex Pistols

“James, give that back to your sister, you know not to steal her things!” Cobb bellowed through the house at the demand of his nine-year-old daughter, Phillipa.

Once Phillipa had run off to find her exuberant little brother, her blonde curly hair bouncing as she ran, Cobb turned back to his reading, wanting to revel in the short-lived bliss of silence.

Suddenly a crash and a loud screech of “Daddy!” rattled Cobb’s eardrums. Sighing, Cobb gathered his newspaper and went to clean up the inevitable mess his children had created.

Walking into the kitchen, Cobb was startled when the phone began to ring. It was not just any phone, but the one specially reserved for work-only calls. Cobb hesitated: since the tragedy of losing his wife to the insanity of dream work, and only managing to claw his way back home to America and his children after performing Inception for the highly influential business man Saito, Cobb had gone completely off the job market. He had dispelled all work contacts, and even alienated himself from his long-term work partner, Arthur.

Cobb knew, though, that Arthur respected this and would have made Cobb’s retirement widely known during the last two years since they had done Inception, which meant whoever was calling had obviously not gotten the message.

Hesitantly, and ignoring his rather guilty-looking children, he answered the phone.

“Hello. Am I speaking to a Mister Dominic Cobb?” asked a crisp English voice.

“Yes, this would him. Who are you? How did you get this number?”

“Ah, now that would be telling wouldn’t it, Mr. Cobb? As for who I am, just call me Archy, everybody does.”

“Right. Archy. And?” Cobb snapped.

Cobb’s ear buzzed as the man on the other line heaved a sigh. “I was afraid that it would be true. You Americans are rather rude aren’t you? Oh well, never mind, to business it is. I have a job for you. I believe you are what they call an extractor. Not only that, but one of the best extractors money can buy, correct?”

Bristling at being called rude, Cobb sharply responded, “No, you are not correct. I retired two years ago.”

“Oh yes, I heard. But perhaps you would consider otherwise after you have heard my offer—”

“No, I don’t care how much money it is, I have left it for good. Now please do not call again.”

With that finality Cobb slammed down the receiver, cutting off any rejections that the other man might have had, despite a slight longing in Cobb’s chest.

“Daddy?” Phillipa asked meekly from behind Cobb’s legs.

“Yes, darling?”

“Are you leaving again?”

“No, sweetie, no!” Feeling shamed, Cobb swept his daughter into a tight hug, before moving to do the same with his son, announcing, “Last one in the pool is a rotten egg!”

Both of the children ran off squealing and giggling, just as Cobb noticed the broken plate on the floor that had obviously been the source of the crash he heard prior to the perturbing phone call. Determined to put the call out of his mind, Cobb, with a little reluctance, returned to the mundane chores of domestic life and went to grab the dust pan and brush whilst humouring the children’s shrieks of him being the subsequent rotten egg. He was, after all, somewhat satisfied with his retired status. At least as much as he realistically could be.

 

+++

 

Slamming down the phone, Archy knew it would be pointless to try again, nor did he have the will to. Nobody said no to Archy twice—not while he had his dignity.

Archy sighed and rubbed at his forehead, pinching his sharp nose, his eyebrows pressed together over his cold blue-grey eyes.

“Bloody Americans. No respect whatsoever.”

“I do apologise. I had rather thought the attraction of dream share would mean Cobb would be easier to lure back, rather than him being so determined about his early retirement. I have not known anyone who had experienced it to be able to leave it behind so, so easily.”

Archy looked across his desk, given to him as a symbol of power and respect in the room that used to belong to his former employer, Lenny Cole. A fake symbol though it was to be. On a web chat, Saito, only ever known as Saito, appeared on the laptop screen. Archy’s right eyebrow raised as he detected the sense of disbelief and regret in Saito’s ending words, as his voice drifted into a whisper.

Archy gave a twisted smile, “I wouldn’t know,” he said simply. He felt a rush of resentment towards his present employer, Johnny, for always swerving Archy away from the dreaming enterprise, never letting Archy go under himself to experience it firsthand.

_“Nah, Uncle Arch, you shouldn’t. Only the scum of the society are allowed. They don’t have the class like you do; they do it for the drugs, the artificial freedom. There’s no sense in it.”_

Archy still heard the whispers of the wonders of “going under” through the criminal grapevine, though; the amazing infinity, the colours, the realism, the authenticity. But Archy knew he owed Johnny something, anything. After all, Archy didn’t get to where he was today without listening to all the rumours. He knows what nobody else wants to know or admit: to every new wonder, there is a downside. The bigger the miracle, the more bittersweet it becomes.

_It destroys you. Makes you not believe in anything natural. Makes you less human. No longer able to dream in real life. No longer die. If you’re shot, you just wake up to new reality. Everything becomes a dream. Your dream. People can invade, take away everything that you hold dear. In dreams your secrets are unhidden. You become lost. It happened before, this couple, and the woman…It destroys you._

“Might I suggest then using the second number I gave you? He is not an extractor, but if Cobb is no longer working, undoubtedly he will have found someone just as acceptable,” Saito said, raising his voice out of the despair and into the stable professionalism he takes pride in. It’s the voice people respond to, maybe even fear.

“His name?”

“Arthur.”

 

+++

 

London, though not a common place for Arthur to visit, still held a sense of familiarity. Maybe it was the sea of suits, the nostalgia for the past, the pride in structure and the birth of modern culture. Nevertheless, there was still the underlying disparity, only noticeable by those who have lived there too long. Only they can see the thick poisonous cloud of toxic fumes, the over-combustion and consumption, the hypocrisy of those who walk the streets. The vulgarity of someone tensing as someone of a different colour passes, or wearing something not suited to convention; the swearing, the littering, the used condoms scattered where children play; violent dogs snapping at heels; the smug politicians unable to walk fast due to the money in their pockets weighing them down. The shameful image of a homeless person, ignored by the uncomfortable by-passers: how dare someone, anyone, not be like them, remind them of their selfishness and success. After all, there is nothing worse than being reminded that actually, your life is better than theirs. Nothing to moan about. Nothing to whine about. Nothing to regret.  

Quite apprehensive about this next job, Arthur waited impatiently at Heathrow for Ariadne to arrive from Paris. The job was one surrounded by secrecy, a circumstance unfamiliar to Arthur. It then made him nervous: partly because he was told as little as possible, partly because it came under the references given by Saito, and partly because this meant he would be working alongside Eames.

Arthur knew he had only one option for whom the extractor was to be; even if he was not the most experienced, he was certainly already in the competition to be the most talented: Eames.

Arthur had instantly called Eames to offer him the extractor position after he hung up on Archy, knowing that if Saito knew about Eames’s change of heart when considering job occupations, Saito would have not even suggested Cobb first. 

A forger turned extractor highlighting as a forger was unheard of in the dream share industry. This made Eames one of the most valuable dream share workers. And everyone knew it.

_“Ah, Arthur, how lovely to hear from you. Now, how may I help you today? Or is this a social call?”_

_“I have a job offer. We were recommended by Saito.”_

_“Oh, well, if it’s by Saito’s word how could I refuse? Certainly since this must be your only reason for calling. I will lend my help in any way I may, do not worry about that. In any case, it is not as if things went tragically wrong and exploded into chaos last time we were in Saito’s presence. Now was it?”_

_Arthur could hear the smirk loud and clear through the phone, and he begged his body not to react._

_“Of course I would be honoured to work with you again, Arthur. We had fun on our outing as extractor and pointman last time yes? Where’s the job?”_

_Arthur wasn’t sure whether he could detect sarcasm in the man’s voice, and had decided that he did not want to know. Since performing inception, Arthur and Eames had worked together two times. The first time, Eames was merely there to be a thief and set the real team’s plan in motion. The second time, however, was on Eames’s very first expedition into the world of extracting. Because he used his skills as a forger, it may have been the easiest and most fluid job Arthur had ever been involved in. He had not even realised that this was possible; it certainly made a change from Cobb, who, if he wasn’t doing his risky Charles creation, was getting Arthur shot at by the fanatical and insane shade of his late wife._

_“It’s in London. Also, Ariadne will be joining us as architect. We will meet face to face in London to discuss the job more once we have all arrived and met.”_

_“London? Oh how lovely, as it so happens I’m already in London, and available to meet whenever you are. Ariadne, huh? I haven’t seen her since we did the not-so-impossible; it’ll be nice to see her again. Call me when you and she are ready to meet up. I will keep my diary free just for the two of you.”_

Ariadne, on the other hand, had practically vanished after inception into her studies to be a qualified architect. Arthur had been worried, though, and kept tabs on her. He was the best point man in the business, after all. And nobody left dreaming that quickly or easily. Ariadne had tried once, just after her first trip into a dream, and failed. It would be nice to be able to say that they never looked back, but they did. Cobb had purposely taken the PASIV before leaving with his father-in-law, though Arthur couldn’t help but wonder if that was just making it harder for himself.

Ariadne most likely needed to dream the most, going completely cold turkey like she did and trying to wait until after her studies to make dreaming a full term profession. It was just a fact: dreaming like they have, no matter how long, or to what scale, it’s not just an idea that acts like a parasite it’s the dreaming as well; everybody gets hooked. They all do, just for different reasons.

Arthur doesn’t like to think about what his reasons are.

“Arthur? Oh my God, Arthur!”

Without warning Arthur was tackled by a miniature hipster, her brunette hair whipping him in the face. Once released, Arthur took a step back just to look at her.

Within the last two years since he saw her, it’s obvious that Ariadne had grown up. Matured, at least. She was dressed in red combats, a polo shirt, and her usual scarf, aquatic and sparkling, wrapped around her neck. She had acquired a few wrinkles, likely from lack of sleep, and Arthur also noticed the bags under her eyes that even make-up couldn’t hide. Arthur flinched inside when he observed the slight sunken face, and prominent collarbones.

Despite this, though, Ariadne could not have looked happier to see Arthur. Her face was lighted up by a blush, and her smile caused not only her cheeks, but also her eyes to stretch and crease.

“It’s so good to see you,” she gushed, once again launching Arthur into a tight hug.

Arthur had to admit to himself that it did seem like a too-enthusiastic greeting considering the two-year gap, and their mostly professional last meeting, but Arthur accepted it. He found it rather endearing and even hopeful. He knew what it was like to leave dreaming, even if he only managed for three months, so it couldn’t have been an easy two years for her.

“You too. You look good.” Arthur gave her a genuine smile before leading her towards the baggage claims. “I’ve taken the liberty of booking you a room, I hope you don’t mind, but it’s easier if we are at the same hotel. So I have acquired three rooms on the same floor. It’s not a very highly rated hotel, mind. I went low-key over quality.”

“That’s fine, I’m just happy to be in London! I’ve never visited before. But it is just one of those places you need to go to, just once, you know? See the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, House of Parliament, go on the London Eye! Oh my God, I need to see Olympic Stadium! I mean the Architecture here alone is just amazing! And there’s so much history and, and beauty here, and am I rambling? Sorry. It’s just, I’m happy to be here.” Ariadne beamed poignantly. “I think I made a mistake. I mean, I don’t really need qualifications in architecture for this kind of work do I? Cobb chose me. Me!”

By this time, Arthur had led them out of the airport, Ariadne’s suitcases in hand.

“Oh, course he did. Cobb only hires the best. Why do you think he used to work with me exclusively?” Arthur smirked back at Ariadne’s eye-roll. It was an endearing and grudging amount of agreement that Arthur was the best. Ariadne didn’t need to see how other point men in the business compared to know that.

“I hope this hotel at least has a good view. And, will you be treating me to dinner?”

“Only the best for you, Ariadne,” Arthur conceded and smiled, before opening a taxi door and ushering her inside.

 

+++

 

“…and it’s a full house! Bad luck, boys.” Eames laughed in the face of the disappointed groans, and mumbles of “Bloody hell.” “Now I must leave you, got a business meeting.”

Eames merely smiled when the inevitable jeers and snorts started up.

“You, in a business meeting? What for? Don’t tell me you’ve turned straight, Handsome!”

“Freddie, don’t be such a fucking idiot! It’s Bob, he’s hardly gonna go straight for anything. Isn’t that right, One Two?”

“Shut the fuck up, Cookie, or I’ll slap ya one!”

Shouting his farewells over the raucous laughter, Eames left the Speeler and headed down to Arthur’s and Ariadne’s hotel.

It wasn’t long until someone caught up with him when he was crossing the main road.

“Oi! Bob! Wait up!” Eames swung round, reacting more to the recognisable voice, rather than the name he had dropped many years ago with no regrets. _He could hardly be called handsome anymore. I’ve gotten old_ , Eames thought to himself with a sneering voice.

“So? How long do we have you for this time?” Mumbles asked.

Since Eames had left England all those years ago, only Mumbles out of his genuine friends had actually understood, and never held a grudge. One Two, on the other hand…

“Why? Did you miss me?” Eames teasingly asked, smirking back at Mumbles’ own smirking face.

“Yeah, of course I did,” Mumbles snorted, “Haven’t you’ve heard? You’re the bright gay rainbow light in my life, mate.”

Eames threw back his head and laughed, before instantly going to cross the road and continued on his way. Like Eames knew he would, Mumbles kept in stride with him.

“I need a favour. There’s…there’s something not quite right. Not as big the whole Lenny Cole fiasco, but the police keep arresting these, er, small-timers. You know what I mean? But it’s not just any small-timers—it’s the ones who work for us. Or live and work around the Speeler. Always convicted and charged. We don’t like it. There’s fucking pigs everywhere, and they’re getting results. Nobody of importance like, sure, but how long’s that gonna last?”

“What are you saying, Mumbles? That there’s an informer?”

“I dunno. All I know is that it’s very fishy, you know? They barely do anything, move in small insignificant ways. Well, compared to the rest of us, anyway. And yet, they’re always charged, there’s always evidence. Evidence by the sounds of it, anyway. Evidence that would be very difficult for a cop to come by, if you what I mean. Maybe an informer, maybe an undercover; or maybe I’m being a paranoid bastard and there’s nowt to worry about. I’m just saying.”

“So, why are you telling me this? What do you expect me to do? I’m not part of the Wild Bunch, I haven’t been for a very long time. I don’t know anything.”

“Come on, Bob! It’s us,” Mumbles hissed. He roughly grabbed Eames’s arm and held him still right in the middle of the pavement, “I’m asking you for your help.”

“Again, I repeat: what do you want me to do? What, go and make the moves on Bernie again? I think I might be too old for him now.”

“Yeah, right. Just do that growling thing you used to do so well, and he’ll come running. Ready to do your bidding, sir.”

Eames merely chuckled and shook his head at the memories of Bernie. Good old submissive, happy-to-please Bernie. Who would look up at Eames with massive puppy dog eyes screaming at Eames to let him touch, for Eames to touch him, to _hurt_ him.

 “Yeah, well. I’m sure he got a nice young twink to take care of after Stella’s death,” Eames shrugged.

“Word of advice: never mention Stella in front of One Two.”

“Yes. I guessed that. Bit of bad blood, eh? Look, erm, this is where I’m meeting my…associates, so.” Eames titled his head meaningfully at the modest-looking hotel, then at Mumbles, who of course deciphered the non-subtle message. Holding up his hands in understanding, Mumbles nodded a final goodbye to Eames that night and left, still leaving Eames wondering what the hell Mumbles expected him to do about what may well be a non-existent problem.

 

+++

 

“Where have you been? You’re late.” Arthur snapped at Eames once he had finally made his way up the hotel’s lift and into Arthur’s room, which served as their official meeting place. Arthur wrinkled his nose when he realised that while Eames may not look to be completely drunk, he certainly smelt like it.

“Sorry, I was merely reminiscing with some old friends.”

“You stink of booze and cigarette smoke.”

Eames laughed at that, “Yes, well, the smoking ban never did quite reach my friends’ notice.”

“Hey, Eames.” Ariadne shyly spoke from behind the door. Eames startled slightly, not realising the petite girl had been standing near him because his focus was so purely and completely on Arthur.

“Ariadne, my dear! How are you?” Eames stepped forward graciously before grasping her hand to his mouth to peck, along with a kiss on the check.

Ariadne simply giggled in response, turning red under his attention.

“If you’re done flirting now!” Arthur barked from across the room, glaring at the two other people still in each other’s personal spaces. If possible, Ariadne had turned even redder, and looked rather distinctly pleased with herself.

Arthur and Eames, however, failed to pay much attention to her being too focused on each other. 

Arthur could feel the back of his neck burning as Eames’s gaze intensified, and decided to swiftly evade it by changing the subject.

“Now that you’re both here, though our client has yet to arrive, I’ll begin explaining a bit about this job—”

Arthur was suddenly cut off by the sound of laughter. Lifting his head, he realised with irritability that Ariadne was busy staring at Eames and giggling to get his attention, even though the man himself had never actually turned away from Arthur. His brow rose in defiance, Eames was either challenging Arthur to complain or continue with his synopsis—Arthur wasn’t entirely sure—but he was becoming increasingly frustrated all the same.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Ariadne said.

“Anyway.” Arthur tensely began, “As I was saying, the client is a friend of Saito, that’s how he was able to contact me. He is meant to meet us here and give us more information on what he wants us to do. I believe it’s a business extraction, not an inception, despite the recommendation coming from Saito. Now—”

Once again, Arthur was interrupted; this time by a knock on the door.

Glaring at the other two occupants at the room—a universal sign for _behave, for fuck’s sake—_ Arthur stalked across the room barely avoiding Eames’s solid structure still firmly in place at the entrance of the room.

Arthur, with caution, peeked through the eye hole, taking in account the three seemingly unarmed men on the other side.

Believing at least one of them to be the forenamed Archy, Arthur slowly opened the door before stepping aside and allowing them to enter.

Two of the men came first. One was short, the other tall. Both dressed in the stereotypical black fashion of “gangsters”. Leather jackets, black trousers, and a simple back t-shirt. Neither had slicked back hair or sunglasses on, so Arthur supposed he could forgive the theatrics of their appearance.

The third man was only a step behind, and Arthur instantly knew that this was their client. The other two were mere monkeys working for their grind-master.

Archy’s cold eyes swept the room, swiftly roaming the room as Arthur closed the door. Arthur was not surprised when Archy fixed his gaze upon Eames. This was a novelty. Eames was easily the toughest looking guy in the room with his arms, tattoos, and stance. What was surprising, though, was the twist of a smile. Arthur frowned, and hearing a scoff from the shorter of the monkeys, he recognised the look on Eames’s face. To somebody who didn’t know Eames, they would think that it was expressionless. But Arthur knew better. It was the same look he gave Cobb when he talked about his children or Mal after her death, or when Ariadne asked him what his totem was, or when Arthur had rejected Eames the one and only time Eames had ever actually asked him out. Eames was pissed.

“Bob.” Archy murmured, not quite questioning but certainly in a tone of wonderment.

“Yeah, alright Arch?” Eames answered ostensibly casual, despite the tightening of his posture, and the tension in his jaw.

Arthur decided to ignore this development, harshly cutting off the questions that were inevitably about to come out of Ariadne’s mouth. “Okay, so I’m right in assuming you know each other, yes? Well it’s a small world out there after all. Will this be a problem? Eames? Mr Archy?”

“Please, drop the ‘Mr’, and no, it shouldn’t be a problem. Right… Eames, was it?”

“Yeah, Arthur, it’s fine. Carry on,” Eames muttered, giving a subtle nod of his head.

Archy smirked, and then passed by Eames without a second glance. The two monkeys, who were obviously not about to introduce themselves anytime soon, stayed by the door, arms dutifully crossed at their fronts.

“Right well, okay then,” Arthur hesitantly started, “Archy, this is Ariadne, she is an architect, and I’m Arthur, the point man. And Eames, who you obviously already know, is the extractor. Now, Archy, why don’t you start by telling us exactly what you expect us to do? You were unbearably vague on the phone, and Saito was even less help. I hope you understand I never agree to jobs completely until I have all the facts. The only reason why my colleagues and I agreed to meet you was because you came at Saito’s recommendation.”

“Yes, I do, and you have my upmost gratitude—”

Eames snorted, his head held down, ignoring Arthur’s quick glare.

Archy sneered in Eames’s direction before carrying on. “I have a business associate. Johnny Quid. You have perhaps heard of him?” Archy sharply glanced at Eames when he said this. “He was the lead singer of ‘The Quid Lickers’. No? No matter, it was a crap punk band that Johnny frequented when he was in his twenties and presumed alive. Anyway, I guess what I’m looking for is what Saito called an ‘extraction’? Without getting into the details of what Johnny’s and I’s business exactly is, he’s keeping something from me. I know he is. And I don’t like it. His stepdad kept something from me, and I paid him a lesson. I need to know if I have to give Johnny one, if needs be.”

“…Is that it? I’m sorry Mr—er, Archy, but you are going to have to give us more information than that. We are good, very good, but we do need some indication as to what we are meant to be looking for.”

Archy sighed and ignored Arthur; instead he shifted his gaze to Eames, who was obstinately staring at the ground. Archy strolled over to Eames, and grabbed his elbow, causing Eames to snap his head up.

“Some secrets are best staying as secrets. For now. Find out whatever you can about Johnny, but he’s a sneaky little bastard, you won’t find what I want unless you delve deeper. Into his dreams.”

“How do you even know about dreaming, Archy? Saito wouldn’t just blab because you think Johnny’s up to no good,” Eames told Archy, the hand still lying on Eames’s arm.

“He didn’t. Johnny and I have moved up in the world. Had to. No choice. You move with the world, right. Not the same as it used to be. The good old days,” Archy laughed mirthlessly, “Hell, the days of Lenny Cole. Well his days probably marked the end of it but there was respect, and fucking order. There were real rocknrollas then. Not the fakes that they are now.”

“I’m sorry, but what the fuck is a ‘rock and rolla’”? Arthur snorted despairingly, glaring at the hand still laid on Eames.

Eames sighed. “It’s just an expression.”

“But what does it mean?”

“A rocknrolla is many things.” Archy answered. His voice was cool and calm, almost like a math teacher Arthur could not help but to deliberate. “He’s not simply the scum of the street. The little thief that runs from the police. The boy who sings ‘Anarchy in the UK’ in his pants in front of his mirror. Nah, there’s more than that my friend. We all like a bit of the good life. It depends on what you’re willing to do to get it. See, for some the money is the only goal. Some, the drugs. Some, the fame, the sex and the glamour. But, a rocknrolla? He’s different. Why, you may ask. Because a rocknrolla wants the fucking lot.”

“And Johnny is the epitome of a rocknrolla. He would kill his daddy for what he wants. Literally,” Eames hummed.

“Actually, that was me.” Archy smirked.

“Yeah, but he helped.”

“So did you, as I recall.” Archy and Eames stood within inches of each other, face to face, never looking away. Eames, though, looked rather proud at Archy’s last statement.  

“Bloody informer,” Eames mumbled, barely comprehensible to anyone but Archy.

Archy chuckled in response, shaking his head. “Poor Lenny. He didn’t count on you fuckers being the ones to reveal him for traitorous bastard he was.”

“He nearly sent me away.”

“It wasn’t personal, I’m sure. Out of all the Wild Bunch, I think you were the one he disliked the least. Handsome Bob, you were always the favourite.” Archy’s voice had dipped deep and low.

“Handsome Bob?” Ariadne snorted, “That’s your name? Or nickname, whatever?”

Eames murmured, “Everyone needs a nickname. Don’t worry I didn’t give it to myself. I’m not that vain. It was given to me by many, many, men and women over the years.” Eames winked at Ariadne. 

Arthur felt his temper rising. From Ariadne to Archy back to Ariadne, Eames had now flirted with everyone. _Everyone but me_ , a pathetic voice at the back of Arthur’s head said _._ Well, except the monkeys, of course. But they were nothing more than asexual statues. Hired to look and act menacing.

“None of this is helping with the job. Archy, I must insist. So you and Johnny are in the dreaming business. I know everyone in this business, a lead singer of a rock band—”

“Punk band,” Archy interrupted. Arthur heaved a sigh in response.

“Whatever,” Arthur growled, “The names Johnny Quid and Archy have never come up before.”

Archy hummed, and pursed his lips, “That’s because we are not exactly… legal.”

Eames huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes, “Well, of course you’re not. The day Archibald and Quid, any generation of Quid for that matter, go legal will be the day that hell froze over and Coronation Street did a series finale.”

“Aw that would be a bloody nightmare!”

Arthur’s head snapped round when he realised the voice came from one of the monkeys. Guessing by the glare the shortest one was sending his companion and by the pout on his face, it was the taller one who spoke.

Archy growled, “I pay you to do what I tell you to do. And that includes when you can fucking talk! Turbo give him an Archy slap!”

Arthur watched in curious fascination as he shorter of the two uncrossed his arms, and with a look of resignation and reluctance, he sharply backhanded his colleague very strategically across the cheek.   

“Anyway, as I was saying, Johnny and I commandeer a dream den of sorts. However, my main job is within property dealing. London is a big and continually growing city. It wouldn’t make sense to drop it. So… Johnny has main control over it.”

“Okay, and?” Arthur prompted.

“And…I believe he’s keeping something from me. I rarely see him. He’s not bringing in the revenue that was expected. If anything, we have lost money. We have suppliers. Johnny hires someone to go between and give them money in return for somnacin. Johnny hires someone to watch over them when they sleep. Johnny hires the dreamers in the first place. Johnny handles everything. And he’s fucking me over while he does it.”

“Okay, so you want us to find out how Johnny runs his—or both of your—business?”

Archy titled his head in consideration and gave a nod in agreement. “If you want to put it like that, yes.”

“Right, well, that we can work with.”

“Goody, well you and Ariadne get started on how about we’re going to go about this. I’m off.”

“Whoa, wait, what?” Arthur called after Eames.

“Is there something wrong, Arthur?”

“Yes there’s something wrong! Why are you allowed to swan off? You’re the extractor; you need to stay here and help plan this.”

Eames exchanged glances with Archy, “Yes, thank you, Arthur, for the condescension. Luckily I have you here to remind me what my own role is. Much appreciated, as always. But I’m going to gather intel. Which, I am aware, is your area of expertise, but these people are my expertise.”

“Come by mine afterwards,” Archy said slipping his address to Eames, so smoothly that nobody even noticed him retrieving it. “Try and something find something useful to bring me. I’ll be waiting.”

With a nod of farewell, “I do hope Saito wasn’t wrong about you, Arthur. Miss Ariadne... Eames.”

 

+++

 

As soon as Eames left, a little while after Archy and his monkeys, enough time for them to have left the building, Arthur felt the frustration in him start to boil over. So he began to absently clear up his hotel room, not that there was much to tidy in the relatively bare room, and unpack his essentials.

Ariadne was about to leave his hotel room, when she hesitated. Instead she turned around, and waited until Arthur noticed she had not left.

“Arthur, can we talk?”

“Er, sure, Ariadne. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Not really. I just, I just wanted to talk to you…”

Arthur paused, confused. Ariadne seemed nervous, shy. He had never seen Ariadne like that before. Even when they had first met, and Cobb introduced her to a whole new world that she had never seen or comprehended before.

“Do you still dream?” Ariadne blurted, a blush rising high in her cheeks.

“No. I haven’t dreamt in a long time.”

“Oh. Yeah, ’course not. I do, obviously. It never really left me in the first place. My time in dreaming was pretty short. Despite that, I still missed it, you know?”

Arthur hummed, “I do, actually. I used to take breaks, long breaks, in between jobs, just to get somnacin out of my system before the next job. But…that idea fell through quickly.”

“Johnny Quid feels that, doesn’t he? The dependency of it. That’s why he does it. The former heroin, and whatever else, addict, has replaced that with somnacin, or well, dreaming, really. Somnacin alone has no glamour. Not enough glitz for a rock and rolla.”

Ariadne and Arthur laughed at her derisive tone.

“Don’t tell Eames that. You’re talking about a former life of his.”

“Was Eames actually a rock and rolla?”

“No idea,” Arthur shrugged. He then smiled at Ariadne and continued with tidying up the hotel room. Ariadne, however, incensed by Arthur’s and her easy conservation, strolled over to him. She laid her hand on his shoulder, prompting him to turn around. Once he was looking at her, Ariadne lifted one of her small hands to his face, and slowly leaned in to kiss him.

Arthur was frozen in shock. Before he could register his body to move away, Ariadne had already stopped kissing him. It was only a soft peck. Reminiscent of the kiss that Arthur had tricked her into during inception.

“Ariadne—” 

“I’ve wanted to do that since we performed inception. We kissed, and I really liked you. I mean at the time I was busy dealing with Cobb’s problems, and his insane shade of his wife, and this whole new world, that I was trying really hard not to fuck up in. And there you were. I never stopped thinking about you. When you sent me that message on my graduation day, giving your congratulations, I was so happy. You didn’t forget me. I hadn’t heard from Cobb, Eames, Saito, Yusuf, none of them. But you remembered me. And I knew that I had to go back to dreaming. Then when you called about this job, I didn’t even falter. I jumped straight at it, because I wanted to be with you.”

Arthur swallowed harshly, the guilt laid heavy and painful in his chest.

“Okay. Okay, Ariadne, I’m very flattered, honestly. But, I don’t, I mean—” Arthur broke off at the sight of Ariadne’s crestfallen face. “That kiss was a joke. I’m sorry, but I never meant it in a romantic way. I kiss my mother like that. You know, it, I was just trying to lighten the mood. And it does sometimes work. I’ve seen Cobb and Mal do it. And Eames tries it nearly every time.”

“Oh,” Ariadne softly said, “So you don’t… at all?”

“No, I’m really sorry if I led you on. Honestly I am. But no,” Arthur whispered, avoiding her eyes out of shame.

Ariadne shrugged her shoulders slightly, twisting her hands she insisted, “Just because you don’t like me that way now. Doesn’t mean you can’t.”

 _Maybe that’s true_ , Arthur thought, _for other people. People who aren’t already head over heels for someone else._

“No, Ariadne. Our relationship will only ever be professional, and I need you to understand that.”

“But Arthur—”

“No! Look, I’m trying to spare your feelings here, but seriously, this will never happen. You’re here to work and get the job done. Can I count on you to do it?”

Arthur recoiled when he saw the tears building up in Ariadne’s eyes. _Not a fan of tough love then_ , Arthur reconciled. 

“Fine,” Ariadne spat, “And don’t worry I’ll do my job like a good little girl.”

Ariadne stormed out, just as tears were making their tracks down her face, and she could barely hold in the embarrassed sobs. 


	2. Part Two

As soon as Eames left, a little while after Archy and his monkeys, enough time for them to have left the building, Arthur felt the frustration in him start to boil over. So he began to absently clear up his hotel room, not that there was much to tidy in the relatively bare room, and unpack his essentials.

Ariadne was about to leave his hotel room, when she hesitated. Instead she turned around, and waited until Arthur noticed she had not left.

“Arthur, can we talk?”

“Er, sure, Ariadne. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Not really. I just, I just wanted to talk to you…”

Arthur paused, confused. Ariadne seemed nervous, shy. He had never seen Ariadne like that before. Even when they had first met, and Cobb introduced her to a whole new world that she had never seen or comprehended before.

“Do you still dream?” Ariadne blurted, a blush rising high in her cheeks.

“No. I haven’t dreamt in a long time.”

“Oh. Yeah, ’course not. I do, obviously. It never really left me in the first place. My time in dreaming was pretty short. Despite that, I still missed it, you know?”

Arthur hummed, “I do, actually. I used to take breaks, long breaks, in between jobs, just to get somnacin out of my system before the next job. But…that idea fell through quickly.”

“Johnny Quid feels that, doesn’t he? The dependency of it. That’s why he does it. The former heroin, and whatever else, addict, has replaced that with somnacin, or well, dreaming, really. Somnacin alone has no glamour. Not enough glitz for a rock and rolla.”

Ariadne and Arthur laughed at her derisive tone.

“Don’t tell Eames that. You’re talking about a former life of his.”

“Was Eames actually a rock and rolla?”

“No idea,” Arthur shrugged. He then smiled at Ariadne and continued with tidying up the hotel room. Ariadne, however, incensed by Arthur’s and her easy conservation, strolled over to him. She laid her hand on his shoulder, prompting him to turn around. Once he was looking at her, Ariadne lifted one of her small hands to his face, and slowly leaned in to kiss him.

Arthur was frozen in shock. Before he could register his body to move away, Ariadne had already stopped kissing him. It was only a soft peck. Reminiscent of the kiss that Arthur had tricked her into during inception.

“Ariadne—” 

“I’ve wanted to do that since we performed inception. We kissed, and I really liked you. I mean at the time I was busy dealing with Cobb’s problems, and his insane shade of his wife, and this whole new world, that I was trying really hard not to fuck up in. And there you were. I never stopped thinking about you. When you sent me that message on my graduation day, giving your congratulations, I was so happy. You didn’t forget me. I hadn’t heard from Cobb, Eames, Saito, Yusuf, none of them. But you remembered me. And I knew that I had to go back to dreaming. Then when you called about this job, I didn’t even falter. I jumped straight at it, because I wanted to be with you.”

Arthur swallowed harshly, the guilt laid heavy and painful in his chest.

“Okay. Okay, Ariadne, I’m very flattered, honestly. But, I don’t, I mean—” Arthur broke off at the sight of Ariadne’s crestfallen face. “That kiss was a joke. I’m sorry, but I never meant it in a romantic way. I kiss my mother like that. You know, it, I was just trying to lighten the mood. And it does sometimes work. I’ve seen Cobb and Mal do it. And Eames tries it nearly every time.”

“Oh,” Ariadne softly said, “So you don’t… at all?”

“No, I’m really sorry if I led you on. Honestly I am. But no,” Arthur whispered, avoiding her eyes out of shame.

Ariadne shrugged her shoulders slightly, twisting her hands she insisted, “Just because you don’t like me that way now. Doesn’t mean you can’t.”

 _Maybe that’s true_ , Arthur thought, _for other people. People who aren’t already head over heels for someone else._

“No, Ariadne. Our relationship will only ever be professional, and I need you to understand that.”

“But Arthur—”

“No! Look, I’m trying to spare your feelings here, but seriously, this will never happen. You’re here to work and get the job done. Can I count on you to do it?”

Arthur recoiled when he saw the tears building up in Ariadne’s eyes. _Not a fan of tough love then_ , Arthur reconciled. 

“Fine,” Ariadne spat, “And don’t worry I’ll do my job like a good little girl.”

Ariadne stormed out, just as tears were making their tracks down her face, and she could barely hold in the embarrassed sobs.

 

+++

 

Eames had just re-entered The Speeler. It was only 6:30 in the afternoon, so most of those who were there before, were still there now.

There were mutters of surprise when they saw Eames had returned.

“Hey, Bob, what happened to the big important meeting?” Cookie asked, his face scrunched up in curiosity.

“Who said it was important?” Eames smirked, and helped himself to the seat next to One Two, who, as well five of the other regulars, was deep in a card game.

Eames’s fingers itched to gamble. But the boys mostly played for spare cash and cigarettes like they were back in prison. It made Eames nostalgic for Mombasa, where he practically had his own local gambling den.

A vibration in his pocket foretold Eames that he had a text; it was Ariadne.

She was asking where he was, as she wanted to come and meet him. Eames raised his brow at this. The girl’s affections for Arthur were obvious to him. He had thought that she would have welcomed the chance of some alone time with Arthur. Eames mentally shrugged and began typing off directions for her to The Speeler, warning her about its lack of charm and attraction.

Shortly afterwards, Eames got another text, this time from Arthur, who was also asking where he was.

 _Well, aren’t I a popular one today?_ Eames thought.

Rather than giving Arthur directions, Eames simply said that he was at The Speeler, and trusted Arthur’s point man skills to find the place for himself.

Arthur, despite having less instructions and directions of where to go, reached The Speeler first, and walked as confident as one could be in a whole new environment being scrutinised by about twenty middle-aged men. All of which were smoking, despite the ban, drinking, despite the time of day, and gambling, despite it being illegal.

Arthur without any hesitation sat in the empty chair by Eames, stole a sip of his drink, and asked, “So, what are we playing?”

After about twenty minutes, of which Arthur had spent gaining reluctant respect from those he had already beaten, Ariadne was finally buzzed in. Eames watched as Fred, knowing to expect her, bowed mockingly when he opened the door before her. Ariadne didn’t look so much scared, as confused. She had obviously never been in this part of London before, and the taxi driver spent the ride over muttering under his breath, and warning her to ‘watch her back’. Fred, though, was more like a caricature rather than a threat.  

“Welcome, ma’lady. Please do come in, leave the hat at the door.” Many of the men who heard him guffawed. 

“Shut it, Fred. Ariadne over here!” Eames called, waving one of his large hands at a seat next to Arthur. If anyone but Eames noticed Arthur tensing, or Ariadne’s grimace, they didn’t let on, and Eames watched with a wide smile as Ariadne timidly sat down.

“Ariadne, meet the boys. Boys meet the girl who will decapitate your balls if you make one wrong move.” Eames glared warningly around the table, One Two instantly held up his hands reassuringly, Mumbles merely laughed quietly to himself and shook his head. Ben and Jake, two boys Eames had only met looked at Ariadne with some interest but seemed apparent to shrug off any desire to hit on her. The bartender, though, had come up behind to offer Ariadne a drink had taken one look at her, and seemed rather dumbstruck. Not that Ariadne seemed to noticed, she was too focused on trying to avoid touching or looking at Arthur.

Fortunately for Ariadne though, Arthur was in agreement, feeling a bit ashamed of his rather harsh reaction to her advances.

Arthur and Ariadne may have been stuck in an awkward trance, both tentative to each other, but Eames and the other boys were in their element. Two hours had passed of booze and smoke. Ariadne had tasted her first cigar, and Arthur had finally lost a game, while Eames was doing shots and mainly catching up with One Two, Mumbles, Fred and Cookie.

“Have you heard? Johnny’s old manager, you know, the American one, is dead. They found him in Thames. Rumour is, Archy got him. Had a massive hand mark on his cheek. Had been bitten to death by those crafty fishy things. Fuck knows what their called. But they bit out his eyeballs. His tongue. And…his dick!”

“What? Don’t be such a fucking idiot Cookie! How did they bite off his dick? He was wearing pants!” laughed Mumbles, shoving Cookie in the shoulder.

“No, no, they did! You could tell! There was a lot of, well ya know, blood in that area.”

Arthur chuckled along with the rest of them, while Ariadne nervously began to look around, worried about who might overhear. Seeing people being killed and tortured in dreams was one thing, but hearing about it in real life, especially when the murderer was their client, was something new. _And exciting,_ Ariadne whispered to herself, becoming grossly keen to hear more.

They were interrupted, however, by the intercom buzzer. Everyone in The Speeler always stopped to listen. Just in case it was a raid. Or Archy.

But a crackle of ‘it’s only us’ deemed the newcomers safe, and the punters went back to their own business, some even with a groan.

Arthur and Ariadne watched with curiosity when two men, both skinny and scruffy in a way that was familiar of a homeless person. Or an addict. Or both. One, dressed in a long old black coat despite it being summer, jumped up onto the nearest table, whistled, and began, to Arthur’s amusement, and Ariadne’s fascination, to auction off several items; including a clearly fake gold watch, which was sold to somebody for their ‘bloody dad’s birthday. Fuck it if I’m actually going to go somewhere for him’.

It was when the loud one announced he had one of Johnny Quid’s guitars that Eames actually perked up and paid attention.

  _How the fuck did they get that,_ Eames wondered, _everyone knows how fucking possessive Johnny gets of his shit._

Within five seconds, Eames decided on a plan of action. He found out nothing concrete from the Wild Bunch, the rumour that Archy might have killed Johnny’s former manager, but that spoke more of Archy’s temper than anything else.

“How are you two fuckers still alive?” Eames shouted across the table.

“Excuse me?” One of the addicts stumbled towards Eames’s chair, and pushed his face into Eames’s. “Do we, ahem, do we insult your very being by being in your being presence, with like our being?”

Eames sneered and bent his knee, before kicking the guy in the stomach and sending him well over ten feet through the air, then consequently falling hard on his arse, banging his head on the hard concrete floor.

The rest of the guys in at the Speeler fell quiet before erupting raucous laughter. Arthur and Ariadne, however, were frozen in shock. Eames had never been one for making a spectacle of himself. At least, not outside of a dream. With that thought, Arthur nervously fumbled his totem, knowing Ariadne was doing the same thing beside him.

“Good for you, Handsome! Been dying to that for years!” Shouted Fred, despite that he was sitting only a few chairs away from Eames’s own.

Eames scoffed and watched as the bartender cautiously walked towards the fallen addict, before taking his arm and helping him into a seat. The man’s head was bleeding at the back. _Good,_ thought Eames, _the fucker_.

One Two leaned forward and whispered, “What are you doing Bob?”

Eames smirked and responded, “Getting attention.” 

“Hey. Be careful. See the fucker in white, remember him? He’s the crack head that used to hang out with Johnny Q all the time.”

Eames looked over at the person in question. With realisation, Eames found that One Two was correct. Eames was surprised he had not recognised him instantly, he never forgot a face. His name was Pete. Notorious drug addict, once was protected, almost cared for by Johnny Quid, which got him a lot of attention. Rumour had it Johnny killed a bouncer with just a pencil because he pushed Pete. Eames had no problem believing that. Johnny was, and most likely still is, fucked up.

 _Huh,_ Eames thought. _Maybe I don’t need the Wild Bunch_. 

 

+++

 

Eames lounged against the wall outside of The Speeler, appearing nonchalant, but was keeping a discrete eye on Pete as he staggered inebriated down the alley. Eames wrinkled his nose in disgust at the vomit stains on his thread thin shirt, and his haggard but bright and dark eyes.

He was high. He was very high, Eames rectified. A snide voice in Eames’s head said _perfect._

“Oi! Dickhead!” Eames hollered after Pete as he began to absentmindedly walk past Eames.

Very slowly Pete turned his head, his body frozen in shock. He peered at Eames, as if he was trying to work out where he recognised him from.

It took a lot longer than it would a sober person, but comprehension finally cleared Pete’s face of confusion.

“You! You attacked my friend before. Scum.”

“Who the fuck you calling scum, ya pothead?” Eames snarled, his arms curled up by his side. His entire presence screamed dangerous brute. Pete, though, either didn’t care, or he just couldn’t tell from behind the obscure drowsiness. Probably a mix of the two.

  “You, ya common and a, a fucking, fucking, twat!” Pete nodded his head once sharply, before staggering forwards from the force of it.

Eames came towards him, a hand instantly gripped on to his shoulder, heaven forbid he fell and smashed his head, ruining Eames’s plan.

“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? With that Johnny lad?”

“Don’t you talk about Johnny Quid, alright? That man is a class act, you’re just scum. You, you, you’re not allowed to talk about Johnny.”

“I’ll talk about whoever the fuck I want to, got it? Now listen to me. I’m guessing you’re about thirty minutes away from passing out in your own vomit. Snuffing ten milligrams on top of the amount of pure vodka you’ve gulped down, and the other drugs I’m sure you have already taken today will do that to a man. So, you’re gonna listen to me, and answer whatever questions I will ask, then your drug-addled mind is going to go to sleep and forget all about me. Got it?”

Pete snorted, snot flying out from his nose, “Bite me.”

Eames sighed. He was not a violent man, not really, but if the job entailed it, well.

Drawing himself up at full height, Eames drew back his arm, and seemingly without hesitation or enough time for Pete to register what was happening, Eames’s fist collided with Pete’s nose. A river of blood and swearing gushed out of Pete.

“Ah, you bastard! That was my nose. You, you broke my nose.”

To Eames’s utter bewilderment, Pete had promptly burst into tears. Horrifying and broken sobs retched themselves from his throat. Pete fell heavily down, as if he just had his spinal cord snapped. His hands were clamped firmly at his nose, his eyes at the ground, stubbornly refusing to look at Eames.

“Leave me alone, you bully!”

“Look, er, just tell me where Johnny is?”

“How should I know? He left. Wanted nothing to do with me since getting clean. I just do his dirty work.”

“And what dirty work would this be?”

Pete frowned; his hands still gripped his bloody, and most likely broken, nose.

“I’m not allowed to say. Johnny said.”

“You can tell me. Or do you want a broken chin to go with that broken nose.”

“Go ahead. You can’t make me do anything.”

Eames made a sudden moment, like he was going to kick Pete in the face, when Pete, seeing this, instantly began to squeak and whimper. His hands still permanently attached to his nose, he began to rock backwards and forwards, uttering a pathetic stream of “No.”

Eames rolled his eyes and went to kneel down by Pete ignoring the aborted attempts to shift away from Eames’s threatening manner.

“What does Johnny make you do? Hmm?” You tell me and I promise I won’t hurt you. Hell, I’ll get you your next fix, on me of course, if you tell me.”

Pete was trembling; his snivelling whimpers had quietened down, though he still had not moved his hands.

“Johnny gets me whatever I need,” he muttered.

Eames was growing impatient. It was cold, he was tired, he was pissed off in general, and he still had to meet up with Archy. He could fight though to keep his cool. After years and years of lying, forging and being a general bastard, he believed he had this skill down to perfection. But tonight, he just couldn’t be bothered.

Eames grabbed Pete’s clutched hands and began press pressure on to them, making Pete whine and panic.

“I really, really would appreciate if you just told me something. Anything. You know Archy, right?” Feeling Pete minutely nod his head, Eames exerted more force, “Of course you do, everyone does. And you know what Archy’s like when he’s pissed, right?” Pete nodded his head once more. “Good. So let me tell you then that hypothetically it was Archy who wanted this information. And I go back and tell him you wouldn’t tell me. Who would he be more mad at? Me? Well, that is certainly possible, except Archy needs me, he respects me. Grudgingly, sure. Plus, I have friends who would be very upset if that was to happen. Friends that even Archy does not want to cross. Or, you?”

Tears leaked passively over Eames’s hands. Pete looked up with utter fear in his eyes. Through the dim blur of his intoxication, failure whooshed through his body.

“Johnny. He, er, he just asks me to do things.”

Eames irascibly pushed hard on Pete’s nose, enjoying the slight crunch and muffled scream, “What things?”

“Like, like clean up! He, erm, gets me to go and get people out of his place when they, you know, had too much. Then I make sure Johnny gets his money, and stuff, because he gives them stuff. He like, erm, he’s a drug dealer, see? These guys all OD, or something, because they are always asleep. So I get them home, and get Johnny’s money, and make sure they don’t die on Johnny’s property,” Pete rambled inconsistently, trying and failing to escape from Eames’s tight hold.

“Johnny’s sober, why would he be giving these people drugs? And letting them take them on his turf?”

“That’s why he doesn’t want Archy to know,” Pete whispered dejectedly.

 _Shit_ , Eames thought, _he doesn’t know a fucking thing. Archy’s gonna be pissed._

 

+++

 

“What did you find?” Archy asked starting to mix them both drinks. _Gin and tonic probably_ , Eames assumed, _the posh old fart_.

“Nothing of great interest. You know Johnny’s old friend, er, what’s his name? Keith? Jake? Craig? You know who I’m talking about. The one who used to live with Johnny when was off being dead. Allegedly Johnny killed a bouncer for him?”

“Pete?”

“Pete. That’s it. He was at The Speeler. Trying to sell some shit. Most likely to fund that horrible drug habit of his.”

Archy scoffed, “Piece of scum, that one. Was sure he would be dead by now.”

“Nope,” said Eames, popping his ‘p’. “Alive and well. Well, as well as he can be, I guess. Bit of a sore nose, though. Looked like someone had hit him.”

Archy pointedly stared at Eames, as if he was trying to work out where Eames was going with this. “Yes? Poor boy.”

Eames accepted the drink off Archy; taking a sip he twisted his face. _Bloody gin and tonic_.

“So… nothing useful?” Archy’s face tightened with this realisation, Eames suppressed the warning voice at the back of his head.

“Well, no, not exactly.” Archy inclined his head in response, nodding for him to continue.

“He… mentioned some things. He obviously has no idea what Johnny is actually doing. Thinks they’re all druggies, you know? But… I don’t know. Maybe he knows someone who does actually know something.”

Archy didn’t respond, but neither did he look impressed. Instead, he took a drink and watched Eames from over the top of his glass.

Archy smirked as Eames swallowed, a rush of blood filled his face, and down south. Archy knew that Eames was remembering why the current situation was so familiar. He had only seen it twice before. When they first met, and then once more. It was after the Lenny Cole incident. Archy had stopped by the Speeler to offer compensation for the grievances against the Wild Bunch (basically a promise not to kill them for being witnesses), and to personally thank Bob. Bob had been very popular after Lenny Cole’s death. It was him that got the evidence for Lenny being an informer after all.

And Archy was very demonstrative in his gratitude.

Archy stepped forwards, still holding his unfinished drink in his hand. He had walked right up to Eames, staring him down as if to dare him to move away. Once he was barely an inch away, only slightly looking down at him, Archy reached out took Eames’s drink away from him, his fingertips dragging along the other man’s. Arthur felt, rather than saw, Eames shiver. The stark contrast from the iced glass and the warmth and familiarity of Archy’s touch had sent a tremor down his spine. Archy placed both of the glasses down on the table by the side, the condensation ringing the table’s surface.

Eames stayed still, watching Archy’s every move. Archy knew what he wanted, and as much as he hated it and would kill a man for saying, he knew he was being predictable and that Eames knew exactly what he wanted as well. What was unpredictable was what Eames would do.

Archy had gotten bored with waiting and grabbed Eames by his face and forced a hard kiss on him. Full of tongue and teeth, no finesse or caution. Only instinct.

Roughly breaking the kiss, Archy back off a few steps. He took in Eames’s reddened and wet mouth and smirked, “On your knees.” His eyes were slanted and dark.

Eames bristled at the dominant order, obviously unused to taking the submissive role in these kinds of circumstances. Despite this, Eames lowered himself slowly but surely onto his knees, his head raised as high as possible.

Archy stalked forward until he was within touching distance of Eames, his crotch level with Eames’s face.

“Handsome Bob. You always did suit that name.” Archy stretched out his arm, and stroked Eames’s upturned face. His fingers travelled down the length of Eames’s face, across his closed eyelids, down the slope of the nose, his thumb lingering on Eames’s plump, pink lips.

“Not Eames. I don’t like Eames. Why the fuck would you name yourself after a chair?”

Eames, never moving his eyes from Archy, licked his lips, ignoring Archy’s question, before moving his tongue along Archy’s thumb. He sucked it in lightly, and wetly licked it. Archy watched Eames grimaced slightly from the salty and tangy taste. He felt himself harden inside his pants, excitement rising up in him. 

Archy’s eyes had grown noticeably darker and larger, as had the bulge opposite Eames’s face.

Archy began moving his thumb in and out of Eames’s mouth, never breaking eye contact. He could barely hold in a groan at the thought of it being his cock, especially when he felt Eames suck in his cheeks, and tighten his hold.

Archy also felt a thrill when he remembered how Bob had looked up at him all those years ago, hands bounded behind his back, his life in Archy’s hands, Bob on his knees. _Where he belongs,_ Archy cruelly thought.

Undoing his belt with his free hand, Archy reached inside his pants and grasped himself tightly, letting out a grunt as he did so. Eames’s eyes darkened even more staring down at where Archy was still grasping himself.

Glancing up at Archy, meeting his stare, Eames leaned forward, his hands behind his back, and took Archy into his mouth.

Archy threw back his head with a small laugh and groaned. His senses were on fire. He could feel Eames’s talented tongue massage the smooth skin of his cock, tracing the prominent veins.

Grasping the back of Eames’s head, Archy began pistoling in and out of Eames’s hot and wet mouth. He could feel Eames’s throat jerking whenever he gagged. It was only slight; like Eames was used to the rough treatment over the years, but Archy still chased it. Stuffing himself deeper and deeper, feeling Eames’s throat clenching him tighter each time. Archy looked down at the sight and felt the hardest and hottest rush of blood to his dick he ever thought possible. Eames was still submissively on his knees, hands clasped behind his back, but now his entire face was red, and tears were streaming down his cheeks. Archy could see the bulge in his cheeks whenever he moved and began tracing it with his hand. He couldn’t feel his hand from the inside, but it still fascinated him to be able to feel himself inside of Eames. His hip gave a hard jerk when he thought about how else he could be inside of Eames, and came hot and fast down Eames’s throat, not bothering to give warning or pull out, Archy moved his fingers into Eames’s hair and tightened his hold, keeping him in place, and forcing him to drink down his bitter and scorching cum.

Once Archy did finally pull out, Eames gasped desperately, breathing in full breaths of oxygen through his mouth as if he had been drowning in the sea.

Archy’s legs were shaky, it was the hardest he had come in a long time, and gave a small exhausted laugh. He grunted with mirth when he saw Eames was still hard. Pushing off his shoe he began massaging his crotch. Eames without any embarrassment began urgently frotting against Archy’s foot until he finally spilled over without ever undoing his pants. 

“Good boy,” whispered Archy.

“Well… I try.” Archy’s dick gave a pathetic twitch at the sound of Eames’s wrecked and rough voice.

Archy gestured towards to his room with a nod of his head, “Go in. Take off your pants and wait for me. I’m not finished yet.”

Eames chuckled, “Really, old man? You sure about that?”

Archy felt himself flare up at the comment, knowing Eames was baiting him. He grasped Eames’s chin and pulled him up to his feet. “I said go in the fucking bedroom. You can go when I say you can go.”

Eames snorted at the blatant lie; both Archy and Eames knew that a well-aimed and strategic punch to the gut would have Archy on the ground and defenceless. They simply enjoyed the antagonistic give-and-take, especially Eames. 


	3. Part Three

Arthur went to meet Ariadne outside of her hotel room so they could go and meet with Archy, who was meant to be showing them his and Johnny’s dream den. Neither of them had heard from Eames since the previous night, and Arthur was agitated. He was not answering his phone, despite him meant to be working.

Ariadne was still not talking to Arthur, and Arthur couldn’t find it in him to apologise again. He had rather given up, deciding that if Ariadne wanted to stay in her childish strop she could. As long as it did not affect the job.

They walked in complete silence, Arthur following the precise directions he spent a good chunk of last night memorising, and Ariadne simply following, but keeping a safe distance between them. No one would think they were together.

Once they were a street away, now deep in the east end of London, Arthur was shocked to see Archy and Eames, intimately leaning towards each other.

“Ah, good. You made it,” Archy stated, his gaze searching Arthur and Ariadne.

“Yes, we did. And Eames…We did wonder where you were, and if you got our message.”

“Didn’t need it in the end. Happens I was with Archy already. Simply… followed him.” Eames hesitated and dropped his head, deciding that the pavement was a better source of entertainment than Arthur’s own wide-eyed glare.

Arthur knew he was staring at Eames, and ignoring Archy’s prattling on about the place. It unsettled him to be this unprofessional. But Arthur felt thrown off, and as usual, it was Eames’s fault. At the same time, Archy did not feel like a usual client… especially from the look of the hickey that was carved into Eames’s throat.

It wasn’t until he saw Eames turn to face the wooden boarded up door that Arthur realised they were actually going in to the run-down house.

“Why, though, would you have a top-secret dreaming den in this…erm, well, shack? Surely it’s not safe. Anyone could break in.”

“Tell me, Miss Ariadne, who do you think would break into a place that from the outside looks poor and abandoned, never mind the inside? Nor for the fact that it is known notoriously throughout London as the junkie’s boneyard?”

Archy looked almost gleeful that Ariadne had asked, in what was Archy’s obvious opinion, a stupid question.

Arthur sensed, before he saw, Ariadne recoiling at Archy’s mocking tone, and she began a stubborn stream of justifying her reasoning.

Arthur ignored them both, and went to follow Eames who had inconspicuously left the room. Arthur found himself in a kitchen, if it could be called that. The sink looked as if it had been ripped halfway out. A tangled and mangled pile of pipes were left behind, and any water leakage had long dried up, leaving only rust. The only cooking appliance was an ancient gas oven that looked completely unused, except for two of the burners. If the cupboards actually had doors, they were practically black with marks; most were hanging by a hinge, and often missing large chunks from the sides or corners.

The faint smell that Arthur had noticed as soon as he stepped in the house was still noticeable. The smell of sick and something Arthur could not recognise.

Arthur managed to find Eames in a small boxed-off room by the kitchen. He was standing by a door, his hand resting on the handle, obviously waiting for someone to hurry up and catch up with him.

Eames, impatient with waiting, asked, “Ready, Arthur?”

Then, without an answer, he swung open the door and instantly began descending the stairs he found behind it.

Arthur whispered after him, “Lead the way, Mr Eames.”

It was two flights long, and they soon found themselves reaching a supposedly dead end.

Eames heaved a sigh and immediately started pacing the small space they found themselves in, running his hands over the stone cold walls.

Arthur could hear Archy and Ariadne finally making their way down.

“Bob,” Archy called once he reached the last step. He swiftly side-stepped Arthur and stopped Eames from searching anymore with a hand on his shoulder.

“Wrong place,” Archy smirked, and then motioned towards the centre of the floor with a nod of his head.

Eames fell to his knees and quickly began searching with his hands once more.

Soon he let out a victorious hum: he had found a latch that was hidden by the gravely surface and lack of light.

Once Eames had pulled up the trap door, he quickly jumped out of sight. Archy followed him.

Arthur hesitated and grabbed Ariadne’s arm.

“I don’t know what you’re expecting to be down there, but I can promise it won’t be pretty. Are you sure you can handle this? Cobb has told me about these kinds of places. Yusuf runs one in Mombasa. Even I was a bit… it’s not like regular dreaming with a PASIV. It’s quite… quite haunting, and sad, apparently.”

“God, you’re such a patronising—I don’t need you to look out for me, Arthur. I can look after myself.”

Arthur was slightly startled by the hiss, but he relented. He knew he didn’t really have a place to say something anyway. They could hardly even be called friends—at least for now. But the truth was, Arthur was genuinely shaken up by what Cobb described to him. The dregs of the dreaming world. Cobb, though, as a vessel of all things bad for him, was weirdly fascinated by it. Arthur could see it in his eyes.  

“Okay, if you’re sure,” Arthur stepped aside, and made a mocking ‘ladies first’ gesture, hoping for a least a reluctant half-smile. Instead he got a glare, and a barely concealed elbow shoved into his side.

Ariadne stormed ahead, and jumped before Arthur could even register. But when he went to do the same, Ariadne was effectively blocking his way. Arthur could only see the top of her head, but it was obvious she was frozen.

Arthur just about heard her broken whisper of, “Oh, my God,” but before he could offer some words of comfort, Eames swept her under his arm, and began to shush her. Glancing up, he made a gesture towards Arthur, and ushered Ariadne to one side.

Arthur took a deep breathe, there was a faint stale smell beginning to waft up the trapdoor. The jump was about six feet, so the ceiling was only a couple of inches above his head.

The smell was a definitive smell of piss and shit. He could hear Ariadne gagging to one side, and Eames reassuring her. “You get used to it. Really. Just breathe through the mouth. There you go, dear.”

Arthur fought not to do the same, and concentrated on his surroundings.

Archy was standing rigid near the very back of the room, his face set in a deep glare. The room itself more resembled an undecorated and austere corridor: it was cold, and the air was uncomfortably thin. The overwhelming stench of shit filled Arthur’s nostrils, and he fought to breathe. The artificial light dulled Arthur’s eyes, but he could still clearly see the two rows of mattresses, some occupied, lined up by the wall. 

Arthur quickly noted a total of eight sleeping spaces, and five bodies.

Ariadne finally grew accustomed to the smell and joined Arthur, along with Eames.

“Depressing isn’t it?” Eames murmured, supposedly rhetorically; nobody gave an answer, and he didn’t wait for one.

Eames hastened over to Archy, who had not moved since Arthur saw him pause. Eames, though, faltered a couple of steps away. Arthur could see his posture tensing, and snapping up so fast he was surprised he didn’t hear it crack. Arthur had worked with Eames for many years, and he knew Eames was alarmed and worried.

Startled, Arthur fought the urge to get Eames and Ariadne out the claustrophobic room, and tensely walked over to Eames’s side. Ariadne, slightly less wary, followed.

Ariadne mainly focused on those sleeping: they were all attached to the same PASIV, which was lying conspicuously in the middle of the floor. Arthur spared a curious and quick glance at them before moving all his attention on Eames and Archy.

“Eames, what is it?” Arthur asked him, noticing both men were staring down at a sleeper.

He was obviously important; he was connected to his own PASIV, and had the farthest distance between the others. He was shockingly pale. _Even for an Englishman,_ Arthur thought. He was bone thin, and a sheen of sweat covered all his visible skin, his dark hair matted to his forehead.

With a wary glance at Archy, Eames turned to Arthur, and Ariadne lurking behind,

“Arthur, Ariadne, meet a real rocknrolla. Johnny Quid.”

“This,” Arthur spluttered, “This is the guy we are meant to be extracting from? A fucking addict! Look at the state of him. The PASIV says he’s been under already for over ten hours! He went under with the intention of dreaming for at least eighteen.”

Eames shushed him, and turned to ask Archy, “What kind of sedative do you lot use?”

“Sedative?” Archy responded, still not looking away from Johnny’s fragile figure.

“Ariadne, check that none of them are going to wake up any moment soon. And be careful about it; anything could wake them up.” Eames glared at Archy, “Anything could wake Johnny up.”

“We should leave. We might wake him up and it’ll ruin our plans,” Arthur told Eames.

Eames nodded his head and went to grab Archy’s arm. Archy recoiled from the touch.

“Why the fuck would we need a sedative? He’s asleep already from that machine.”

“PASIV,” Eames sneered, “And a sedative will keep him in deep sleep. Like this he’s too vulnerable. A loud noise, a shake, water to the face, you name it, could wake him up in a second. PASIV or not.”  

Arthur sighed impatiently, “Look, can we just leave?” Without waiting for an answer he began making his way back, grabbing Ariadne’s arm as he left.

Eames and Archy, however, remained behind.

 

+++

 

“Well. What are you going to do with your boy?” Eames asked.

“First, I’m going to feed him bit by bit to the fucking dogs, then rip him apart one limb at time and throw him in a car and set it on fire.”

“Wow. You’re actually going to the dirty work yourself?”

Archy smirked, “Only way I can be sure something goes the way it’s planned around here.”

“Hey, we’ll do a good job. Not that I’m exactly sure what you us to do. You know you his secret now. He’s an addict: once an addict always an addict. They just replace one substance, obsession, or what-have-you, for something else. Look, fair warning, yeah? I’ve seen what being addicted to dreaming can do to a person. It’s not just the somnacin as well, but the actual dreaming...well...”

“Well I wouldn’t fucking know now would I? Never done it.” Archy narrowed his eyes at Eames. “But I will.”

Eames pursed his lips, “Sure. Why not?” Eames gave a sardonic smile, and titled his head at the exit, “After you, then.”

Eames and Archy crawled out the trap door and headed for the front room of the house. Archy stopped, causing him and Eames to collide slightly, “I want to. Today.”

Eames gave an eyebrow, “What? Dreaming?” Eames shrugged, “Sure, say the word and I’ll set up for you at The Speeler and show you the works.”

“Okay, well this is the word. Today.” Archy demanded once more, frowning at Eames, daring him to say no even though Archy knew Eames never would.

“Fine, I’ll go now. Clear the area. The Wild Bunch might be hanging around.”

“As long as they don’t see me, I don’t give a fuck what they do. But first, I want a cup of tea. I’m parched. I’ll be there between two and seven hours. Don’t be late.”

Archy strolled out, not caring that Arthur and Ariadne were nowhere in sight. Eames stayed a couple of heartbeats behind, feeling slightly amused, before leaving himself. He cast a discreet look around, recognising an old friend from his Wild Bunch days, Luke. _Still dresses like a homeless person, the posh twat,_ Eames scoffed to himself, and left by the back alleyway before Luke could see him. _I wonder if he remembers that time I bashed his head in with a bat and stole his watch and two hundred quid. Probably, the grudge-holding dick._

 

+++

 

A while later, Eames was setting up the back room of The Speeler and waiting for Archy. The Speeler was closed, and private, perfect for avoiding any distractions or unwanted visitors. Eames was beginning to set up the PASIV, inserting the vials of somnacin into the machine, when One Two came bursting into the room, his phone clasped at his ear. Eames cared not, though; he knew One Two and Mumbles were around, and that they both saw him enter the room carrying what they would suspect to be a silver suitcase.

Eames hummed to himself, ignoring One Two’s curious eyes and obviously fake phone call. The loud answers of “Uh huh,” and “Yeah, sure mate,” were making Eames struggle not to laugh.

Eames continued to set the PASIV, and was now drawing out the lines and needles. By this time, One Two had completely given up on pretending he was on the phone and was watching Eames work intently.

“Hey, erm, mate? What you doing there exactly?”

“Hmm? Oh just working.” Eames smiled and nodded at One Two before promptly returning to the PASIV.

“Oh. Er. Okay...” One Two gave Eames a queer look, swung open the door and shouted, “Oi! Mumbles! Get the fuck in here!”

Mumbles did not need telling twice, and was in the room before One Two had even finished calling for him.

“The fuck’s going on in here? What the fuck is that?”

“Would you like to see?” Eames grinned like a shark, his crooked teeth gleaming. Both One Two and Mumbles were frozen in consideration.

After some hesitation, they both simultaneously said:

“Hell yah!”

“What, really? Well yeah, Bob, that, that sounds… okay.” Mumbles frantically began to nod his head and lean forward in excited apprehension, staring at the PASIV intensely, as if he was expecting it to move. 

“Boys, get ready to welcome a whole new world,” Eames smirked and held up two PASIV wires, mentioning for each of the boys to take one.

Mumbles slowly reached out for one, while One Two snatched his out of Eames’s hand and instantly began to inspect it with a peculiar look on his face.

“Wait, it’s a needle? Is this like a heroin on a drip? You an effing drug dealer now?”

Eames rolled his eyes and ignored the mocking tone. Instead he fitted Mumbles and One Two with their needles, skilfully getting them in to the veins on the first try. 

“Okay boys, just lie down.”

“Whoa, you’re not gonna try anything, right? Me on the floor must be a wet dream come true for you, eh?” One Two winked at Mumbles as both men began to giggle like boys in the playground.

Eames, once again, rolled his eyes and ignored One Two, though this time he couldn’t fight a smile at the friendly jab. _We’ll never live that down,_ Eames thought fondly to himself.

Once they were all lying on the floor, Eames pulled the PASIV closer to him and without a warning to the other two, Eames pushed the button and within seconds they all fell into a deep sleep.

 

+++

 

“—so then Fred, the fucking idiot, goes to the girl and tell her that he’s this big mega-star or some shit and—!”

“No, no, no, the best moment was when Jake, you don’t know Jake do you?”

“No. No, I don’t. He here?”

Mumbles gave a cursory gaze around The Speeler before nodding at an underweight man in his forties, whose greying hair flopped into his eyes. He was seemingly in a casual conservation with the barman.

Eames hummed, “Looks familiar, sure.”

Eames, much to the chagrin of Mumbles and One Two, began to chuckle. Loudly.

“What the fuck up with you Bob? I ain’t even told you what happened yet.”

“No. It’s just—damn guys. Do you two go any other place than the fucking Speeler?”

“Whaddya mean?” 

“I mean of all the places that your, both of your, subconscious goes to is the fucking Speeler!” Eames again guffawed, both at the surroundings and the genuinely bewildered looks on his friends’ faces. One Two in particular just looked like a smacked puppy who wondered what he did after chewing an expensive couch cushion.

“Have you gone off your rocker?” asked Mumbles leaning back in his chair as if he didn’t want to catch something.

“How did we get here?” Eames simply replied, smirking in their faces.

“Yep. Definitely off his rocker,” One Two turned to Mumbles. “It’ll be all that time in America, you’ll see. I mean anyone who spells colour without the ‘u’ is bound to be nuts. I mean what the fuck do you have against the ‘u’?”

Mumbles chuckled, but looked at Eames warily. A slow sense of realisation filled his face.

“Bob,” he whispered and began to panicky look around the room.

“Mumbles. How did you get here?”

 “One Two, how did we get here?” Mumbles asked. “No, really think. Cos… I can’t remember” 

“Huh. Well, we just—erm, we came from… how we usually do.” One Two finished lamely.

“What’s the last thing you both remember? Really think.”

“You said you were gonna show us something… but you never did. So we came back in here instead.” One Two answered confidently.

“Yeah. And what happened in between? The fuck you do to us, Bob?”

“Welcome to a new world. You’re dreaming.”

One Two scoffed and shook his head demurely. “Yeah, okay, sure.”

“No really. It’s like…when you’re dreaming you sort of go straight to the middle of it, don’t you. You never have a beginning of a dream. You always go to the moment where you’re having this big conservation with a mate, or you’re on an adventure. Or your case One Two straight in bed with the girl. So, the space between getting here and being at the hotel never happened. In a dream you just go straight to the interesting stuff.”

“If this is this dream bollocks then what’s the rest of the guys doing here? Oi, Cookie! Give us a wave then!”

Cookie’s head sprung up at One Two’s holler, and immediately give him a wave followed then by the bird, whilst smiling.

“He and the rest of these guys weren’t there when you stuck that needle in us. See, what did I tell ya? Heroin on a drip. We’re just too high to remember how we got here. Not the first time that’s happened, and you can bet your arse it won’t be the last,” laughed One Two raucously.  

Eames sighed, _harder than I thought it would be. Bloody oblivious. Although I was in love with him for three years, never mind the fact that he didn’t know I was gay for the first seven years he knew me, so this shouldn’t really be surprising._

“He has a point there, Bob.”

“They’re projections. Your subconscious formed The Speeler and filled it with everything that is associated with it, i.e. the punters. You walk out of that door and London will be filled with projections. My projections, since I’m the dreamer. Every one of those people up there will be people that I probably don’t know. Walked past them once in the streets of Mombasa. Or I haven’t seen since I was a baby. It doesn’t matter. My brain still registered them and in the freedom of a dream my brain can send anyone to the forefront of it. Nobody in a dream is original. Not really you would’ve picked up their face somewhere you just don’t remember.”

Seeing the dubious looks still permanent on their faces, Eames, reaching the end of the tether, decided to go for drastic measures.

Both Mumbles and One Two fall out of their chairs in shock when an instant image of Archy had suddenly replaced Eames.

“Boo,” Eames joked, still keeping his natural voice.

“Holy mother God of shit!” One Two ranted.

“Okay now that is some scary shit,” Mumbles muttered, almost sounding impressed rather than alarmed.

Eames chuckled, “I bet this is the time you’ve ever seen Archy laugh. Or rather, his face laugh.” Eames changed back to himself, but not before showing Mumbles and One Two their own faces, too. “So… now do you believe me?”

Mumbles and One Two jumped simultaneously as the ground and walls began to shake.

“Whoa! The fuck was that?” One Two jumped up alarmed, and grasped Mumbles’s arm to pull him up, too.

“Huh,” Eames began, “I’ll take that for a yes. You know you’re dreaming. It’s collapsing. It’s fine, don’t worry. It’ll only hurt for a second.”

“Right…wait…what?!”

 

+++

 

By the time One Two and Mumbles woke up, Eames was already sitting up in his chair, hands behind his head, sporting a big smirk and waiting for the boys to explode.

And explode they did.

“What the fuck?!”

“Seriously, Bob. How did you get involved in that shit?” Mumbles shook his head; he looked almost impressed, almost jealous.

Eames chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck; his only tell. “It’s a long story to be honest guys. But…you know me. I go where there’s trouble. Money. It started out thieving, really. And I just sort of…got obsessed. No, no not obsessed. Bad word to use in this business. I just wanted to try and see what I could do, you know? I started dreaming by myself, and seeing how far I can push the laws of physics. Can I fly? Get rid of gravity? Can a dog’s head be a cat’s arsehole? What about at night time, will the stars automatically align themselves? Fucked if I know what the night sky actually looks like.”

Eames paused to gauge the boys’ reactions, both of them were frozen in their seats, unsure what to say or do. “Then I looked at the people. I tried doing accents at first, and like, reinventing myself in the dreams. Just clothes at first. Then the more I tried, the more practiced suddenly I could walk around in someone else’s skin. After maybe a year, I did a job. Only meant to be stealing this man’s insurance papers and a copy of his mortgage, when we hit a snag. So I went up to the extractor. Oh he’s, like, the leader of the job. You know? The boss, the big man. He does the bulky dangerous shit.” One Two snorted disdainfully before Mumbles shushed him and mentioned for Eames to continue.

“But yeah, anyway, I told him we could try doing things a different way. Like I could forge, erm, impersonate someone he knows, and distract him or even just get him to tell us what he needs to know. Usually teams don’t need a forger, and are quite happy for me just to be employed as a thief. But now, well, they’ve all learned how to bloody do that, haven’t they? You won’t fare well in this business if you don’t know how to pick a bloody lock at least. So, I’ve had to adapt. Forging is my passion. It’s, like art. But I’ve been moonlighting as an extractor these days. More money. Plus, most extractors are shit. Like this guy Cobb, now he’s known as one of the best in the business, and it’s because he has imagination. And a lot of it. Ambition, too, the same kind of need I had to learn more about dreaming. But…” Eames broke off with a small chuckle, “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. Anyway—”

During Eames’s little speech both One Two and Mumbles had been bent forward in their chairs, both uncharacteristically immobile and silent.

Raising an eyebrow, Eames let himself lounge back and waited for them to respond. After ten minutes of silence, the three men simply staring at each other. One Two tutted, smacked his hands on his legs and asked, “So, can we do it again? Wait, it won’t explode this time, right?”

Mumbles scoffed over One Two. “Hell, Bob, I knew you were a swot. Didn’t I tell you, One Two, Handsome Bob: fucking genius.”

Eames gave a sardonic smile and ignored Mumbles, instead answering One Two, “No. You’ll go in this time knowing you’re dreaming. Your subconscious won’t freak out as it knows what’s happening. And you’ll remember that you’re dreaming this time.”

“Right… cool,” One Two responded, demurely nodding his head, “Well, what are we waiting for then?”

 

+++

 

“Where has Eames gone?” Ariadne asked Arthur, causing him to twitch in surprise. This was the first time since he had rejected her she had voluntarily spoken to him.

Arthur cleared his throat, “I don’t know. He left after we did. I assume he’s with Archy somewhere.”

It had been several hours since they had ventured into Johnny’s dream den and found the unwaking corpses. Arthur and Ariadne had waited outside for Eames to catch up, but it became apparent that they were attracting unwanted attention. Arthur in his posh, expensive suit and Ariadne in her smart but casual attire could be easily mistaken for police detectives. Or easy targets for a mugging. Either way, Arthur had a feeling that that would have been a very dangerous assumption to be made about them. Therefore, quickly sidestepping a beggar, Arthur and Ariadne quickly strolled for the main road, stopping the first taxi that they saw.

Now they were safely holed up in Arthur’s hotel room waiting for a word from Eames. Arthur was growing more agitated with the thought of Eames being alone with Archy. He wasn’t blind; he knew they were no longer just a professional partnership. Nevertheless, that didn’t mean Arthur had to like or approve of it. He didn’t trust Archy; he was the kind of man who would kill his best friend if he stole from him. What would he do if Eames, Ariadne and Arthur failed him? Even if Arthur believed Archy would forgive them, the thought still made Arthur’s fingers itch for his gun around Archy.

Ariadne and Arthur began planning how they would take Johnny, but they struggled without Eames. Eames wasn’t only their imaginative extractor; he actually knew Johnny and his _kind_. That was knowledge that Arthur just could not learn from his limited research. He had tried and failed to gain anything substantial on Johnny, despite him being a former rock star. The only personal facts that he was able to find was that Johnny’s favourite biscuit was Fox’s party rings, and _Fight Club_ was his favourite movie. The latter was rather cliché, but the former surprised him. _I had him down as a Lion bar man_ , Arthur muttered sarcastically to himself.

“Okay, we know Johnny dreams already, but not sedated. If we wait until he goes under we would have to sedate him then and there. Can we do that in a room full of people? What if he or someone else wakes up? And we would have to move him without being seen.” Ariadne was mostly talking to herself, but loud enough for Arthur to hear. It did seem like the obvious way forward, take advantage of Johnny when he’s already hooked up to the PASIV. It would mean that he wouldn’t be aware of the change between reality and dreaming if he was dreaming in the first place.

“Well, he has no long-term engagements. No doctor’s appointments, dentist appointments, and no international flights ever. Or any flights and travelling arrangements, for that matter,” Arthur sighed, his forehead pinched in frustration.

“We may just have to take the opportunity. How hard can it be to pay off a couple of addicts?”

“Ones that go there specifically to dream and have nowhere else to go to do so? I’m guessing very.”

“Yeah… that’s what I thought.”

 

+++

 

Eames blinked a couple of times, he found himself back at The Speeler with Mumbles and One Two. However, unlike the last time, it didn’t feel like a jump since neither of the boys were talking mid-sentence. Instead there were looking around the bar in open fascination and curiosity.

Mumbles leaned forward conspicuously, “So, these people aren’t really people right? So…what exactly do they do?”

“Well, nothing really. At least, not yours, anyway. Sometimes they can act like antibodies. If they suspect someone is in a dream other than the dreamer they can attack. But that’s usually if you’ve had experience, which I suppose now you have, so they would. As long as the subconscious knows about dreamshare, then it can learn what to look for. But these are my projections, mind; very heavy, security mine are. One of you guys; dream, sure. But my projections are running the show here.”

“Wait, so whose dream?” One Two asked.

Eames turned to him with a smirk. “Yours.”

 

+++

 

Archy was sitting at his desk, both hands wrapped around a cup of tea; Tetley, of course, none of that herbal shit, when one of his monkeys, Ray, came rushing in, agitated. Archy could barely hold in a groan, “What? Can’t you see I’m having a cup of tea.” Archy held up his cup in a sarcastic toast, and sneered.

Ray gave a small sigh before reluctantly lifting his head, “You ain’t gonna be happy, boss.”

Archy smile stayed, but it became even more twisted. He took a slow sip, and winced, “Oh, still hot. Nothing like a good cup of tea, you know?” Ray grew nervous and gave a small shrug. “Do you want to know a tip, Ray? Always add the milk last. And never put sugar in it, you’re fucking disgusting if you take sugar. Or American. Or both. Did you know tea actually comes from India? Not so British now, is it? Of course, there’s some fucking idiots who consider curry to be part of British culture.” Archy threw back his head in amusement, ignoring Ray’s growing tension, and slightly sweaty face, exemplified by his shiny bald head. Archy scorned at the sight. Once Archy’s humour had faded away, he gestured towards Ray to continue without even looking at him. Still drinking his tea, the white china cup clacking against his teeth.

“Police…er…police reckon they found a body last night. You remember your Johnny’s boy Pete? Yeah, well, he’s dead.”

Archy’s eyes narrowed over the cup and shrugged, “Yes, and?”

“They have a witness saying they know who did it.”

“Yes…?” Archy’s hand tightened on the cup’s handle.

“It was…I mean, they, are saying it was…”

“Who?!” Archy had grown impatient and thumped his free hand on the desk.

“Johnny.”

The fragile china fragmented and broke under the force of Archy slamming his cup down. Ray shouted as his face was splashed by scorching hot tea. Most of it ran down Archy’s hand, leaving a fleshy red glare behind, and continued to travel down his arm.

“Find me that witness.”

 

+++

 

Walking out of The Speeler, One Two rushed out into the streets, “Ha! This is my dream, bitches! But if it is, why are all the girls dressed, and the guys aren’t bowing down to me and calling me master? Or you know, why the fuck are there guys, anyway?”

Eames rolled his eyes, whilst Mumbles giggled next to him, “He’s got a point there, Bobo. I’ve never had a dream like this.”

“You guys are prats. All dreams are different, and this one is a shared one. It may be your head, but remember it’s _my_ projections.”

“Okay, then. So, then why aren’t all the guys naked and why are there girls here?”

Eames couldn’t help but let his jaw drop an inch. _What happened to the homophobic twat I was in love with?_

“Sorry boys. No soft-core pornography here. Straight, gay, bi, trans, fucking granny or whatever. Nowt.”

“Aw. So what’s the point then? I mean if you can’t have like amazing sex that defies all physical logic, then why dream?” Eames wasn’t surprised to see One Two’s face drawn up in genuine confusion.

“There are loads of reasons. And like I said, the main one is to discover secrets. And hey, did you hear me say I have never had sex in a dream before?” Eames winked.

 

+++

 

Archy walked into The Speeler after the bartender, with only a hint of fear in his eyes, had buzzed him in.

Ignoring the past-out man sagging on the bar, Archy stormed through to the back room, where he knew Eames would be.

 

+++

 

“One Two, seriously, you have the entire world, and all the fucking PlayStation games you play, and you dream up London?” Mumbles grumbled. “God, you’re boring.”

“Fuck off! It’s not like I can control it.”

“Actually…” Eames shrugged, “You kind of can.”

“Huh? Really?” One Two asked, squinting at Eames. Then as if inspiration as struck, his eyes light up and he began scrunching his face up.

Mumbles and Eames burst out laughing, and only laughed harder after Mumbles called out, “Holy fuck, you look like you’re having a difficult shit! What the fuck is wrong you?”

“I’m trying to change the fucking dream, aren’t I?”

Eames, still chuckling, shook his head and walked off, Mumbles and One Two quickly following. “Alright boys, let’s see what the mind of One Two is like.”

It was London, no doubt about it. And yet it was different. Eames could see where One Two’s subconscious filled the dream from memory, but there were specific changes in the landscape. After a short walk around the block, they were outside of One Two’s apartment where he had lived ever since his first job with the Wild Bunch. But it was exaggerated. The buildings around his flat felt, rather than looked, further away. His door stood out, it still had the years of damages scratched on it, but the colour was more glaring compared to its usual dull and disinterested red. It was a dream of someone inexperienced. After years of running around in people’s heads, Eames knew the signs of a new dreamer, and One Two’s mind was so open and vulnerable that it almost made Eames feel guilty. _Almost._

Because Eames had already seen what One Two and Mumbles had failed to. Up in the one window of One Two’s old flat was a woman. Beautiful, slim, and darkish of skin. Eames felt his breath stutter. He knew who she was, of course. He did fuck her husband, after all. He had also been immensely jealous of her once upon a time. Though at the same time he also didn’t give a shit. She was always meant to be just another one of One Two’s flings. Of which Eames never begrudged the straight man for. But now she was here.

Eames could hear One Two and Mumbles behind him still bantering and teasing each other, as One Two continued to try again and again to change his subconscious. He ignored them and opened the door to One Two’s flat. Slowly walking up the stairs, Eames felt the hairs on his neck stand up. Something about this was making him wary. He wasn’t sure if it was seeing her or not, but he was hyperaware of every creak on the stairs.

Once he reached One Two’s apartment, he slowly turned the door knob and swung the door open. Stella was waiting for him inside.

“So, what do you think?” She asked, dressed in the same grey pleated tight dress she wore the day she died, Eames recognised it from the news. He remembered watching it in shock, still not fully recovered from being nearly killed by a fuming Archy, his arm around a grieving One Two.

“Well…my subconscious associates you with One Two. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” she smirked back. “Why?”

Eames ignored her to take in the flat instead. It was different. At least, compared to the last time Eames visited it. The walls were scrapped of wallpaper as if One Two had thought about redecorating but ultimately gave up, some new basic appliances, and a painting. A painting that instantly sent a shiver down Eames’s spine. He recalled Cookie boasting to him and Mumbles about getting a painting for One Two to give to his new ‘missus’. He didn’t know yet that she had been killed, and the painting had conspicuously disappeared. 

Eames lifted a hand to the canvas, the rough texture of the paint scratching his fingertips. He turned slightly to look at Stella. She stayed standing still, but was watching him intently. Eames frowned in confusion at her before suddenly the painting began to fracture and wither. Shaking the flakes and bits of paint off his hands, Eames began to tear away at its surface. Underneath were sheets and sheets of paper. Official documents. Ones with very recognisable emblems on.

“Shit,” Eames muttered.

He could faintly hear Mumbles and One Two talking as they ascended the stairs, Stella giggling behind him.

“What the fuck? Stella?” One Two breathed, disbelief clouding his face. He stumbled in the room, accidentally slamming the door in Mumbles’s face.

“One Two. Calm down, she isn’t real. You know that now.” Eames placated him, trying to control the feeling of rage bubbling up inside of him.

One Two ignored him, though, and tracked carefully to Stella, raising a trembling hand to touch her cheek.

“Shit. I never meant for that to happen.”

Eames frowned in confusion. “What do you mean by that?”

“The painting. I know it was the painting that got her killed. I don’t know how, though. It was the only thing missing from her house; it must have been a mugging. Fuck. Stella…”

“Ignore her! And focus on your shit fuck life! What the hell is this?” Eames whispered, his voice dripping with anger. He waved the documents in his hand; they were a blur, so One Two could not actually recognise them, but his hesitation was enough and Eames promptly raised his gun and shot him point blank in the head.

One Two woke up with a shuddering gasp, his heart pounding in his throat, the vision of Eames pointing a gun at this head burned his eyes.

“What the fuck?” He gasped.

“I was rather hoping you would tell me that,” said Archy, standing by One Two’s feet and watching as the three men awoke one by one.

“Archy. Right. We had an appointment. You’re early.” Eames tried to shake the confusion and dread from his head. Quickly getting up, he grabbed Archy’s arm and pulled him to one side, away from the listening distance of Mumbles and One Two.

“Have fun then? You, and especially One Two, look like you’ve been through the wars… or had a few rounds of rather energetic sex,” Archy smirked. “Has the boy recovered from his rampant homophobia, then? Good for him.”

Eames disregarded Archy’s words and pressed him for news.

“Well, there is a reason why I came by so quickly. I didn’t miss your face that much. Johnny’s in trouble. Someone has decided to sign his death warrant and name him as an… accomplice to the very unfortunate murder of dear old Pete.”

“Wait. Who the fuck is Pete?”

“I believe you _didn’t_ break his nose once.”

Eames’s eyes widened. He saw and memorised all of the papers in One Two’s dream. The name Pete was amongst them. Murdered, found recently, witness identified. One Two was an informer. _No,_ is _an informer._ Eames corrected.   

One Two and Mumbles were staring at Eames with their mouths wide open, unsure what to do or say. Both of them were still confused about the abrupt ending to the dream— _and also there was the fact that I did kind of shoot them both in the head, and that the man they’re scared of was watching them sleep,_ Eames mused to himself _._

Eames nodded to himself and decided to take control of the situation. Gesturing for One Two and Mumbles to leave, ignoring One Two’s confused grunting, Eames picked up a line for the PASIV and asked Archy, “So, you ready to explore? You know…dream sex is amazing,” Eames smirked pushing off Archy’s suit jacket and unbuttoning the shirt cuff.

Eames sanitised the needle and quickly and professionally inserted it into Archy’s arm.

Archy snorted and sat down on the floor once Eames had firmly locked the door, “Yeah? Show me what’s so fucking magical about it.”

Eames leered at him and inserted his own needle, and with a thought about One Two and how fucking screwed he was, he pushed the button of the PASIV and he and Archy were soon asleep. 

 

+++

 

“I’m going to kill Eames. Where the hell is he? Fuck, Johnny’s been arrested!” Arthur exclaimed.

“He’s not answering his cell; you don’t think he’s gotten himself into trouble, do you?” Ariadne asked.

“What, Eames? No. No, we would know. Besides, Eames never gets into trouble for very long. He’s made his way out of some of the most guarded and strictest prisons without so much as a how do you do,” Arthur shrugged.

“Well maybe he’s still with Archy? Or his friends?”

Arthur winced at the thought of what Eames and Archy could be up to. “No. Why would he be? Archy’s our client, and he is most certainly not Eames’s friend.”

Ariadne snorted, “Well, no, not a friend. Definitely not a friend.” Arthur rolled his eyes as she began to giggle into her hands.

“I don’t think I have ever realised how much of a teenage girl you are.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me. Besides, that’s rich, from you. At least my crush on a colleague isn’t on someone I spend most of my time whining about and bickering with.”

Arthur felt his ears burn, “I don’t what you’re talking about,” he gruffly responded.

“Sure you don’t,” Ariadne simpered, pretending to check her nails, ducking her head to hide her grin.

Arthur fought down the urge to argue back and began to frantically hack into the local prison records. _Like child’s play, seriously,_ Arthur murmured to himself.

“By law they can hold him for twenty-four hours, so he’s got another eighteen hours until he’s released. His lawyer’s already confirmed bail.”

Arthur stopped to think. “What if we get him while he’s in the prison? It’ll be tricky but doable. Especially if Archy’s implication that he had connections with the prison guards was true.”

“He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would exaggerate.”

“He doesn’t?” Arthur snorted.

“Well, no. He’s far too classy for that. English.”

“Casual stereotyping. Always fun. But… I think Archy would say whatever he wanted to—or had to—in any situation.”

Ariadne shrugged, “I won’t pretend to know someone I’ve only met for like five minutes.”

“Really? Because that didn’t stop you with Cobb,” Arthur teased.

“Shut up. I’ve learned my lesson. No more wandering around in other people’s dreams unless it’s for a job. Especially if they have some seriously fucked up issues over their dead wife.”

Arthur laughed, “That’s always a good regulation to have.”

 

+++

 

Three hours later, of which Arthur and Ariadne spent the time studying Johnny’s movements and his case, Eames returned.

“Where have you been?” Arthur snapped.

“Just keeping the client happy.”

Arthur bristled. “Johnny’s been arrested. You know about this?”

Eames groaned. “Yes. Way too much.”

“What do you mean?” Ariadne asked, but Eames waved her away ignoring her question.

“What have you two been up to then?”

“Working,” Arthur shortly replied.

Eames looked up at him in surprise, “Oh really? Wow, I never would have guessed. Thank you, Arthur. Truly.”

Arthur sighed and cursed at himself. “We’re trying to devise the best way to get Johnny alone for the amount of time we need without anyone seeing or disturbing us.”

“Right,” mumbled Eames. “Any ideas so far?”

“Prison,” Ariadne answered, “If Archy has some contacts we could get in and out without anyone disturbing. None of the prisoners will see since they’ll be locked away, and the guards don’t check the cells after a certain time, surely. And if they do, we’ll make sure that guard is the one who’s in Archy’s back pocket. The only problem is: how do we get in without Johnny seeing us? Or knowing that we’re there?”

“Hmm. Easiest way, drugs in his food. Or we could gas him I suppose. We wouldn’t be proper criminals unless we donned the cliché disguise,” Arthur joked, “We could borrow something off an officer and bash our way through.” Arthur was surprised when Eames laughed with him, and berated himself for being ridiculously proud over making him laugh. 

“Did I ever tell you that I love bent cops? I would’ve spent three nights in a Vietnamese jail if it hadn’t been for one,” Eames recalled, smiling.

Ariadne giggled, Arthur though ignored him, still fighting his pride, and instead redirected his attention to the job. “You’ll be able to forge the stepdad, right?”

Eames squinted at him, “What? The dead guy who Johnny hates, and that I have met maybe four times? One of which I had a bag over my head for most of it.”

“Well, yes. Who else would Johnny be open to? He’s not going to tell Archy is he? Archy is the person he’s keeping these secrets from. Besides father issues. Always the way to go, remember?”

Eames moaned, “Arthur, no. Okay. Trust me, Archy would go down like a storm. We don’t need Johnny to physically tell me, just trick him into having whatever it is he’s hiding from Archy available for you and Ariadne to steal. I am not forging Len, way too risky. Johnny’s one smart and observant bastard. He may not look it, but trust me. He is.”

Arthur shrugged and let it go. At the end of the day, he did trust Eames. With his life, even. _If he messes up, though, I’m going to come down on him harder than Zeus throws a lightning bolt,_ Arthur thought.

Arthur watched as Eames gave Ariadne Johnny’s old address. She left immediately to observe the landscape and house for construction in the dream.

“So. Just you and me, then,” Eames smirked.

Arthur merely hummed in response, his gaze fixed to his laptop screen.

“What, you don’t want to talk? Not very sociable.”

“I’m busy, Eames.”

“Doing what? Johnny isn’t going anywhere for the time being. Relax.” Eames left his chair and came to lean against the desk Arthur was currently working at.

Arthur’s fingers paused on the keyboard as he felt the heat from Eames’s body burn his skin, despite them not even touching.

“How are you Arthur? I don’t think I’ve asked you lately.”

“I’m fine, Eames.”

“Okay,” Eames started, “you know it’s only polite to ask back, right?”

Despite himself, Arthur found that he had to struggle not to smile. “How are you, Eames?”

“I am lovely, thank you, Arthur. Rather excited for this job. Have to admit I’m curious to see the inner workings of Johnny Quid.”

Arthur leaned back in his chair and peered up at Eames, “Yes, me too. I did a little research about his band, The Quid Lickers. How very original.”

Eames chortled, “Something tells me that wasn’t Johnny’s idea. And if it was, it was obviously meant to be taken ironically or something. I wouldn’t know the difference. Irony tends to go over my head.”

Arthur snorted in disbelief. It didn’t matter how much Eames pretended not to be as smart as he was; Arthur knew Eames could out-ironic someone with the best of them.

“What?” Eames asked.

“Nothing,” Arthur shook his head. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

“If you say so. So are you going to tell me how you spent your time since the last time we saw each other, or what?”

“It’s kind of boring, actually. Between working and respecting Cobb’s wishes not to visit, I haven’t been up to much.”

“Cobb’s set a ban on you, huh? Seems a little harsh.”

“He’s just worried about his kids. It’s fine. He doesn’t work in dreaming anymore, but I do, so… makes me a risk I guess.”

Eames shrugged and patted Arthur on the shoulder, “By the sounds of it, those kids love you. He’ll come ’round, I’m sure. Just don’t lead any trails to him.”

Arthur stuttered at the heat that was seeping through his suit jacket. Eames’s hand was hot and heavy, gripping his shoulder tight. Arthur cautiously looked up from where he was staring at Eames’s hand to stare at his face.

There was an awkward pause. Neither man moved or spoke.

Arthur licked his lips, gulping when he saw Eames’s tracking the movement. He was about to open his mouth to say something when “Baby Got Back: rang out obnoxiously from Eames’s phone.

“Fucking One Two,” Eames grumbled, barely discernible to Arthur. Eames heaved a sigh and let go of Arthur shoulder’s and moved across the room to answer his phone. Arthur could hear him mumbling, and soon Eames hung up and announced he was leaving. Arthur felt embarrassed and irrationally angry that Eames was leaving him for One Two, but he nodded without looking at Eames and frowned at the screen once again. This time his eyes didn’t move, though, and he was locked in a tense posture, stubbornly refusing to look back at Eames.

Arthur couldn’t help but peek at Eames’s retreating back when he heard the door open. With a groan, Arthur let his head fall into his hands, resigned over losing yet another opportunity out of many over the years.   



	4. Part Four

“What the fuck were you thinking? A grass. Informer. A fucking tart like that Lenny effing Cole who was nearly responsible for me going to prison? What…what are you doing, One Two?” Eames was furious. He’d met One Two at his apartment, unreassuringly familiar after his voyage into One Two’s dream. Eames told One Two about what he’d found in his dream straightaway and revelled in the panicky, wide-eyed, regretful look he got in return.

“You don’t understand, Bob,” One Two croaked, “They think I killed her. Stella. I… I was the last person to see her alive—they have my fucking sperm, Bob! Mumbles gave me an alibi but… it’s shit, basically. It’s not like we can tell them the truth about where we were, can we? And they have like… absences you know, in the CCTV, and in her house. Like it was wiped of any DNA that was in the room where she was killed. And just… I don’t know… all this shit. They’ve rattled it off to me a thousand times over, and I never bloody understand it. And, and they were fine. You know they were fine with me doling out these fucking small names. The ones no one gave a shit about. But then… they found out that I knew Johnny.”

“How?” Eames murmured.

“Well, they sort of… the fuck knows.” One Two slumped against the wall and ducked his head between his knees. “Fuck, Bob, I’m fucked.”

“Yeah,” Eames nodded. Eames rubbed a heavy hand over his face and went to sit down by One Two’s side. He put his arm around his shoulders and gave him a shake, “You need to snap out of this, man. Giving up ain’t gonna help. Okay? You need to find a way to get out of this. And you start by telling me what the fuck you’re doing for Johnny.”

“He gets me to like… pick up these deliveries. Like we did in the old days. Under strict instructions not to let Archy know what I’m doing, though. Doesn’t want Archy to know. I’m surprised, as well. This drug, or whatever the hell it is, is weird. Like, really weird. Nothing I’ve ever seen before. But Johnny swears by it.”

“How did you get involved?”

“After you left, me and Mumbles were running our usual delivery jobs. The police weren’t putting that much pressure on me then. It was fine, I knew I was a suspect but they weren’t focusing on me then, they had other leads and stuff. Like Bernie, remember your old boyfriend? He got a lot of shit. The whole closeted homosexual lawyer thing, they mad for it. So I could branch out... and Johnny offered us two a job working for him and his quest to be like Archy, a real rocknrolla.”

“What does Mumbles do?”

“He goes in-between mainly. The driver usually. I’m the one that actually picks up the stuff and takes it to Johnny. Sometimes even watch over his junkies when they’re all passed. Make sure they don’t choke and, you know, die, I guess.”

“You watch over them? Have you ever seen Johnny do it?”

“Nah. Though it wouldn’t surprise me. He looks like he’s back to where he was before he went to that rehab clinic thing, but no. Never seen him there.”

Eames hummed and nodded. “So why drop Johnny into it?”

One Two groaned, “I had to! They pretty much told me if I didn’t they would _accidentally_ release the stuff about what I have grassed up and reopen the Stella case with me as a prime suspect. Dog eat dog…er world, whatever. I would get sent down or killed if I hadn’t of done it.”

“Right… well, you’re gonna get killed now anyway if Johnny or Archy or anyone else who doesn’t like an informer, including the people who you have already grassed, finds out.”

“Well—” One Two sighed. “Sure. But what else could I do. I mean really?”

“Anything but this, One Two. Anything but this.” Eames shook his head. “Okay, I’m going to help you. Of course I am. But… damn… like you said, dog eat... whatever it is they eat. I can’t risk this falling back on me. There are way too many people happy to pop something in my head for the smallest reward.”

“Damn, Bob. The fuck you do?”

“Damn, One Two. The fuck did _you_ do?”

One Two chuckled and stood up, “So, we gonna find a way of keeping me alive then or what?”

“Yes. Of course. I’m just…not sure how, exactly.”

“Well, what a load of fucking help you are, then!”

 

+++

 

It was the next day and Arthur, Ariadne and Eames were planning the dreamscape.

“I think the best bet would be either the junkie’s boneyard or Johnny’s childhood home. Both scenarios would have a personal profound effect on him,” Eames suggested, doodling carelessly in his notebook.

“I vote childhood home. I’m not the biggest expert on drug hangouts, and wouldn’t he have been out of it for most of the time anyway? Reverting someone back to their childhood can leave them emotionally and mentally open. He would be more… defenceless, in a way,” Ariadne said, already starting to sketch an outline in her pad. “We could put a vault of some sort inside the house and then let Eames—through a forge of Archy—and Johnny’s subconscious do the rest. Just be sure that you plant the idea that he has a secret to keep from Archy and it should work.”

“Yes, I agree. Childhood home might be the best bet. Especially since he has classic father issues,” Arthur nodded.

Ariadne laughed. “Yes, it’s Fisher all over again.”

“Hopefully not completely. We don’t have the risk of limbo. Low concentrated sedative. Just enough to keep Johnny under without any disturbances. Normal simple music kicks,” Arthur told her. Eames raised his hand, “Well, I’m in favour. Can I pick the song?”

“No,” said Ariadne and Arthur in unison, neither one looking up from their notes.

Eames sighed. _Great, bloody Edith Piaf it is, then. Again._

 

+++

Ariadne spent the majority of the next three days visiting the house that Johnny grew up in and studying any old photo of it that Arthur could find, as well as collecting as much information she could get from Archy.

Arthur and Eames spent the time planning the heist and how to get to Johnny. They decided that the prison was the best bet. It would be easy to break into and as long as they were gone by daybreak, it would be easy to go undetected, too.

Archy called to say that his officer was expecting them, and that he would only give them the keys and a spare uniform, and then leave. The officer also called Archy to confirm that the sleeping pills and sedatives that he put into Johnny’s food and drink had knocked him out long enough for the dream team to get what they want. Archy reassured them, and mostly Arthur, that he had enough blackmail on the office that they needn’t worry about being betrayed. Arthur was still unsatisfied, wanting at least a name he could check up on.

Eames only talked to One Two once since discussing his betrayal of Johnny to tell him to meet them at the prison. Since he was the reason Johnny was there, Eames figured he could help out a little. Eames was still torn, though: on the one, hand One Two was one of his best mates, one of which he was practically in love with for many years. On the other hand there was, well, common sense. Eames would never hand One Two over in any way, but risking himself was something Eames wasn’t sure he could do. Not after he spent so long establishing himself in the dreaming world. And Arthur…

Eames shook his head at his thought, berating himself for getting distracted by thoughts of Arthur. Since the incident number 152, as Eames called it, he and Arthur had been rather civil, oddly enough. Whenever the other caught their eye, smiles were shared; Arthur somehow stopped sounding sarcastic when he complimented Eames’s work; and they managed to sit in compatible, friendly silence. It was nice.

Eames groaned, attracting an odd look from Arthur. Eames merely smiled at him, an effort to convince him nothing was wrong. Arthur looked unconvinced but resumed working with a small smile Eames’s way.

Eames began to pack up some stuff, anxiously fidgeting with scraps of paper and pencils, waiting for Arthur and Ariadne to give the signal they were ready to leave as well.

It was nearing midnight and Eames was eager to get started. Arguably, Archy was the easiest forge he had ever done. Which was understandable, since this would be the first time that Eames had ever forged someone that he knew under professional terms. But he had still put in the practice while Ariadne practiced her landscape. There was something very unnerving about wearing a man’s face that you once—or rather, several times—stared into as you had an orgasm. Or that you’d seen orgasm, for that matter.

Interrupting Eames’s musings, there was a knock at the door. After peering through the eye-hole, Eames bit back a groan before swinging the door open and pulling a very nervous One Two into the room.

“What are doing? I specifically told you to go to the police station to wait.”

“Yeah, because I’m going to be seen around there, aren’t I?” One Two protested.

Eames heard Arthur sigh and turned to look at him as he said, “Look, it’s fine. As long as no one saw you. But we should get going now.”

“Yeah, okay,” answered Ariadne. She seemed a little bit nervous. Eames remembered how he checked on her when they were lining up their needles on the aeroplane for the Fischer job. She was nervous then, as to be expected for someone going into their first job. But now she seemed nervous in a good way. She was more impatient, eager. _There’s no way she’s ever going back to what she was doing after this_ , Eames thought, smiling to himself. It made him happy: Ariadne was certainly someone he would want as a regular colleague.

He caught One Two’s perplexed look before he leaned forward and whispered in Eames’s ear, “I thought you were gay for the Arthur guy, why are you checking the girl out?”

Eames rolled his eyes and cuffed him on the back of the head, laughing.

“Shut the fuck up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Seeing Arthur and Ariadne shrugging on their coats, Eames opened the door and shoved One Two out before bowing out Ariadne and Arthur, ignoring the pointed eye roll he received in return.

By the time they made their way to the police station it was almost one in the morning, and the car park and building were near deserted. Eames knew that as soon as they reached the front of the police station, Archy’s man would’ve switched off the cameras, so they didn’t have to worry about CCTV. Walking around to the smokers’ area at the back of the station Eames saw a police officer’s hat lying on the bench. With a quirk of an eyebrow in Arthur’s direction, Eames picked up the hat and found a key card and a key with a cell number on it.

“So much for hospitality, then,” Eames murmured. “Right, let’s go then.”

Pocketing the key, Eames opened the back door with the key card and went cautiously inside. It was a back room, mostly empty with only a small fridge, table and chairs, and a very used kettle. Motioning to the others that the coast was clear, Eames made his way through the room and into the corridor of the police station. He’d been here before after being arrested for the first time, thanks to Lenny Cole, but of course he only ever saw the interview room, the reception, and his cell.

“Come on, this way,” One Two suddenly said, pushing his way past Eames. “What? I’ve gotten to know this place quite well, that’s all,” he answered in response to Eames’s incredulous look.

Following One Two through the police station they were careful to avoid any police. According to Archy, those that were on duty were in a separate part of the building, or on reception, which was his man, and out in the patrol cars. So when they had to walk past the reception desk to turn down into where the cells were, Eames hesitated, not knowing what Archy’s man looked like, nor his name. He stepped out into the space and very deliberately coughed. The man at the desk, however, ignored him, focusing on the papers in front of him.

Eames and the others walked across, casting a curious glance at the man at the desk when it was apparent that he was indeed pretending he couldn’t see them. Eames searched for his name on the desk.

“Officer Winston, is it then?” The man looked up in surprise, obviously not expecting to be spoken to directly. Eames smiled at him and mocked saluted him, “Have a good day, mate.”

Eames then pulled out the key card again and opened the door to the cells whilst laughing internally at the ‘the fuck you doing?’ looks from Arthur.

Johnny was being held in cell six. Ariadne crept forward and very quietly opened the slider to the door so she could look inside. “He’s asleep,” she whispered.

After unlocking the door, Eames carefully opened it, and quickly he and Arthur checked on Johnny’s sleeping state, making sure he was knocked out as needed. Johnny was collapsed against the bed, drool running down his chin, his pupils dilated.

Eames winked at Arthur and took the PASIV from Ariadne, opening it.

“Okay, One Two. You remember what I told you? Only play the music five minutes before the timer runs out. If you think someone is coming, play the drums and unplug the machine instantly. The main priority is always for the PASIV to stay out of civilian hands. We get caught you either hide it or you run like a bat of fucking hell,” Eames then turned to Arthur. “You ready?”

“Ready,” Arthur nodded and grabbed one of the needles, inserting it into Eames’s arm himself. His fingers gripped Eames’s wrist tight, his nails digging in. Eames laid down and watched as Ariadne and Arthur did the same. “Okay, One Two, push it.”

“Right yeah, Bob. Er, good luck.”

Soon darkness clouded Eames’s vision, and the murmured ramblings of One Two became more and more muffled, until nothing.

 

+++

 

Now that they were finally under and exploring Johnny’s dream, Arthur could feel the trepidation fill him. He may have been an experienced dreamer, but he had seen nothing like this. Johnny’s subconscious was an epic dystopia. It was London during the Blitz; all the buildings were run down, some on fire and others with smashed windows and doors, crumbling before the harsh wind and rain. Arthur casted a cursory glance around him: he could see the Big Ben in the distance, its face shattered, and the Thames was spoilt with unrecognisable debris. What was most disturbing though, were the projections. Ariadne’s architectural landscape had been run down and destroyed by Johnny’s projections. Littered all across the streets, most slumped on the pavements, were men women and children all half-dead. Some were covered in blood, and Arthur even caught sight of a woman roughly attached to a man’s throat, ripping out chunks of it, though he was already dead, guessing from his glossy white eyes. Some, though: some were the exact mirrors of a photo Arthur found of Johnny, drooling, with diluted pupils, covered in unkempt hair and dirt, painfully thin and ill—drug addicts.

“Wow, I’ve never seen anything like this before. Well, not outside of a horror movie, anyway,” Ariadne remarked.

“Welcome to your own personal horror movie then, I guess. Just hope for your sake you’re the virgin,” Arthur muttered.

“As far as the axe-wielding, clown-masked serial killer with serious mammy issues is aware, I am,” Ariadne said, and she and Arthur shared a smile.

Arthur saw Eames frown as he watched them, and stared at Eames’s back as he walked past Ariadne and him, forging into Archy as he went. Ariadne and Arthur followed him, several steps behind, as he walked down the streets of London, occasionally pushing those who tried to attack him out of the way. They were so weak they just fell and rolled over. “Pathetic,” Eames murmured darkly.

He stomped past and made his way to where he knew Archy’s old childhood home was. The one Ariadne had created from the photographs was the only thing that had been preserved. It looked exactly like it had done in the photos, and even the projections were ignoring it, as if they couldn’t even see it.

“Bingo,” Eames nodded to Arthur and Ariadne as they made their way into the building and headed down to the floor where Ariadne had devised a safe ready to break open and read any secrets Johnny was hiding from Archy.

Arthur led the way, recognising it from Ariadne’s plans, and headed down to the basement.

It bothered Ariadne, Arthur knew, that it would now be a waiting game. But Arthur was professional, and though he was used to having a more interactive role in the dreams, it made sense for only Eames to lead the job. He knew Archy, and he knew Johnny. Well, at least as well as anyone could know Johnny, Arthur supposed.

Setting up the basement, and uncovering the safe, Arthur began to prepare for the kick. Arthur groaned, though, when he remembered who they were trusting not to screw the job, or them, up.   

 _It’s so much easier trusting greedy civilians who can be easily brought than it is to trust someone who’s actually involved with this shit,_ Arthur thought.

 

+++

 

Eames walked through the house, stopping occasionally to look into the rooms. There was no sign of any projections—or Johnny, for that matter.

Eames tried to shake off the uneasiness that threatened to drown his senses. There something unnerving about standing in the house where Johnny Quid grew up in. _Freudians would climb over backwards to see this kind of shit,_ Eames scoffed.

Fingering the gun in the waistline of his trousers, he began to climb the stairs. Occasionally he spared a glance for the photographs that littered the walls. There were only a few, however. Mainly as if to provide the illusion of a happy household. Eames did notice, though, that there were no photos of Johnny as a boy and Lenny together. Only of a woman Eames assumed to be Johnny’s mother and Lenny together. Only one was with Johnny, taken at Disneyland. Eames felt proud of Ariadne. He already knew how talented she was during the inception job, but rebuilding a house relying only on photos and whatever Archy told her was very impressive.

When Eames reached the top of the stairs, he suddenly heard the muffled sounds of music coming from one of the rooms. He quickly realised that it must have been Johnny’s old room: the door was decked with childish signs, the biggest saying ‘Keep Out On The Pain of Death’ with the traditional skull and cross bones sloppily drawn under it. Grasping the handle, Eames felt himself tense into Archy’s posture, taking on all of his mannerisms in a second, focusing on how he would react to seeing Johnny, if indeed he was inside.

Swinging the door open, Eames confidently walked in, gazing around the room. To his surprise there was nobody in the room itself: only the old music player blasting Sex Pistols through its speakers. Eames got the general idea from the photos and plans Ariadne had shown him, but it still seemed odd to Eames to be standing in a room that was decked in nautical colours and themes. The wallpaper was yellow covered in naval images, and the curtains and bedding were both blue. The only colours in the room.

Eames heard a gasp and swung around; he was met by the sight of a young Johnny Quid. He looked about eleven, dressed only in a white undershirt and pants. Johnny smirked arrogantly at him. “No, Arch. Don’t hurt me, I’m only little.” He cackled and ran away before Eames could answer.

Deciding to follow him, Eames left the room and began to search the rest of the house. He couldn’t find where Johnny had run off to. Walking back out of what must have been Mr and Mrs Lenny Cole’s bedroom once upon a time; he once again heard muffled noises coming from Johnny’s old bedroom. This time it wasn’t music, but grunts and shouts. Eames hesitantly walked over, more nervous this time about what he would find. Glancing around the door, Eames winced as he watched Lenny Cole batter young Johnny with his belt.

Johnny was still dressed only in his vest and underwear and was stubbornly refusing to make any noise or cry. Eames jumped when Johnny suddenly looked up straight at him whilst curled up by the wall, letting Lenny repeatedly whip him with the belt. Big welts and bruises were already appearing across his thin and frail white arms. He had a black eye that was squinted shut, though he wasn’t flinching whenever the belt hit him.

Eames was frozen; he was unsure what exactly to do. It was a dream, it wasn’t real. He wasn’t watching an actual child being beaten up. If this was reality, he would have stopped Lenny instantly, but… what would Archy do? Eames knew that Archy, for all their differences and rivalry, did care about Johnny in his own way. But enough to defy Lenny? Eames wasn’t so sure. 

Eventually, though, Lenny stopped. He gasped and heaved and stepped back from Johnny. “Now listen to me you little shit. You’re under my roof and you will obey by my rules. Once you’re at your posh and very expensive school then you can fuck around and do whatever you want. But not here! Got it?”

Johnny stayed silent, still staring at Eames. Lenny noticed this and turned around. “Archy. The fuck you doing here?”

Eames cleared his throat, “Nothing, Lenny. Just… stopped by. Everything okay?”

Lenny looked worried and glared at him, “Yes. Yes, everything’s fine. Just the boy, you know? Acting up like usual.”

“Yeah. Yeah, ’course, Len.”

Lenny looked between the still-slumped Johnny and Eames’s Archy before screwing up the leather belt in his hands and pushing his way past, out the door. Eames watched his retreating back until he disappeared down the stairs.

When Eames turned back to look into Johnny’s room, the boy had gone. Eames wasn’t sure if he’d snuck out or vanished into thin air, but either way, it made him uncomfortable. After a brief hands-on search of the bedroom, the Eames started to look for Johnny again. Giving up on the upstairs, Eames wondered if Johnny had found Arthur and Ariadne, and, worried, he decided to head back downstairs. But as he came to the middle step, he could smell the putrid stench of cigarettes and heroin. Crouching down so he could look through the banisters, there was Johnny slumped on a very expensive-looking leather couch. He was wearing only his trackies, no shirt. His bare feet were sitting on top of the coffee table.

“Archy,” Johnny hoarsely croaked when he noticed him.

“Johnny,” Eames nodded, “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like, Uncle Arch? I’m writing a renaissance novel. What do you think? I’ll even name my protagonist after you: Archibald.”

Eames scoffed and shook his head in the typical Archy method. “You want to watch yourself. So what, all that rehab was for nothing then?”

“What nah! You seem Arch, this is a dream.”

Eames faltered slightly in shock, “More like a hallucination.”

“I only do it in dreams. It’s how I know. I saw this house, and it was like I had no other way to go. The shit,” mentioning towards the drugs on the table, “always finds me. And thank fuck it does,” Johnny wheezed, laughing.

Eames was surprised. It was basically Johnny’s totem, and yet the dream wasn’t crumbling. _He must not really believe it_ , Eames thought, _or he’s in more control than we thought. He’s using the drugs as a totem. Huh, that’s new._

“Johnny, you’re not dreaming. You’re hallucinating. Now stop going on. We need to talk.”

“Oh no,” Johnny mocked, “Are you breaking up with me, Archy?”

“I might be. If you don’t tell what it is you’re fucking up to.”

Johnny turned his head and smirked, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Except that you are lying, this is a dream. I don’t… I don’t do this anymore.” Johnny voice dropped into a whisper. Eames had to strain his ears to be able to hear.

“Why were you upstairs? Did you stand and watch… again?”

Eames gulped, “What?”

“Did you watch as my daddy, step-daddy, beat the shit out of me? Did you stand and watch? Like you did so many fucking times?”

Eames felt a chill rest in his bones. _So I did do what Archy did. Damn._

“There was nothing I could do. You know that. You shouldn’t have misbehaved; you know what Lenny was like.”

“He blamed me. For my mum’s death, he blamed me. A ten-year-old. And he blamed me.” Johnny laughed suddenly, loud and startling, “Fucking arsehole. Typical: blame it on anyone but yourself. That starts in childhood, you know? He killed her, not me. When she got ill, he did fuck all for her. He wouldn’t even look after her at home. We had to go to this, this shithole of a hospital. She was lucky if she got a warm bath and a cold razor.” Johnny scoffed to himself again, seemingly lost in his own world forgetting the pseudo-Archy standing by. Johnny didn’t look at Eames again, his gaze stayed fixed on the table in front of him, or rather on the drugs that laid there. Swinging his feet off the table surface, he leaned forward and began to make a wrap.

“Johnny. Why are you punishing me over something I couldn’t do? I couldn’t help you with Lenny. He would’ve killed me. Besides, you were a brat. Undeniable. You used to steal my fucking guns all the time. Still do.”

Johnny ignored him and lit up, inhaling deep. As he exhaled, he fell back into the sofa, his head resting on the top and his eyes closed. Eames stared resignedly. He wasn’t sure if he did get what Archy was looking for. Johnny was obviously still an addict and still using, in a way, but using dreams as a safe method and hiding it from Archy. Rather like Cobb with Mal. Then there was the fact that Johnny obviously holds resentment over Archy not standing up for him as a kid.

 _Archy’s gonna be pissed_ , Eames thought, sighing.

Eames tried once more to think about the safe in the basement. “Johnny, be honest with me here, okay? What are you doing with yourself? If I could put all your secrets and everything you refuse to tell me into, like, a safe and break it the fuck open I would. But I can’t, so you’re going to have to open up that trap of yours and speak your mind. And we both know that’s not hard for you to do,” Eames snorted, and waited for Johnny to say something. He didn’t. Eames watched him a little while longer; the glassy whiteness of his face was mesmerizing. You’d think he was dead if not for the slow rise and fall of his chest and the occasional shudder that wracked his body. 

Eames opened his mouth to say something when a round of very loud gunshots sounded from the basement.

 

+++

 

“Ariadne, duck!” Arthur yelled, as the projection of Lenny Cole aimed his gun at them.

Ariadne let out a small shriek as she ran across the room trying to find shelter behind the many cardboard boxes. The basement was built to be a paradox. Though it looked small and cramped, the dreamer could never reach the walls; instead, it was an infinite space, and the boxes, despite looking old and rotten, were as strong as bullet-proof glass.

Arthur watched from where he was crouching as well as Ariadne reached down into empty space only to hold up a handgun. She tried and failed to get in some shots. The projection itself was focused on Ariadne, recognising the dreamer, even though Arthur had already been shot in the leg. _It’s always the damn leg_.

Grunting, Arthur tore off the bottom of his shirt and wrapped it around where his leg was bleeding profusely. There were many ways to die in a dream; bleeding to death was one of the worst.

He could still hear Ariadne frantically shooting her gun. He couldn’t remember if she’d actually used one before, but she was getting in one or two shots. Arthur watched the projection tried to move through the boxes to get to her: his arm had been grazed and was staining the side of his shirt like rose petals on snow, and there was one puncture wound in his stomach but it was evidently not slowing him down.

Arthur looked behind him at the safe. When they’d first arrived it was unlocked, filled with empty pieces of paper intending for Johnny’s subconscious to fill it, but the longer they spent in the dream the more filled the papers became. Most were covered in scrawls and graffiti with phrases like ‘Fuck You!’, and even song lyrics that Arthur recognised from his research on the Quid Lickers, mainly around the subject typical of British punk bands—fuck authority. It worried Arthur; Johnny’s subconscious was obviously unstable, they knew that already, but it was now preventing them from finding a coherent result. _Whatever result it is meant to be. Fuck Archy and his paranoia that we’ll back-stab him_ Arthur growled to himself, rolling his eyes as did.  

Arthur heard Ariadne let out a scream of panic. Grunting, he picked himself up, careful not to put much weight on his wounded shoulder. The projection had found a shotgun from somewhere and was preparing to aim for Ariadne as she scrambled to reload her gun. Arthur quickly noted to himself that among all the paradox talks they have had, an endless round of bullets should have really been number one. Well, at least number two, behind his paradoxical staircases. Arthur was preparing to help when Eames emerged from the door, smashing a crowbar into the back of the projection’s head.

Arthur groaned. “About time.”

“Well I’m sorry, but I was a bit busy,” Eames said. It unnerved Arthur to hear Eames’s voice from Archy’s mouth, though; he decided that it was only specific British accents he rather liked. Arthur limped over to the safe and grabbed the papers inside. They were still mostly profanities and random thoughts, but there was one piece that gave Arthur hope. It was a bank statement, an offshore bank statement that held nearly a billion in cash. _Bet Archy doesn’t know about that, shit._ There were also photographs. Like memory screenshots. Some of which were Pete, the man that Johnny had supposedly killed, lying down in vomit. It was the official police photo of the so-called murder, suspected due to the wound at the back of head and evidence of a forced overdose.

“Eames, check this out. So, Johnny killed him then?”

Eames frowned from where he was helping Ariadne up. Arthur handed the photos to him and watched as his expression changed when he saw that it was not Johnny who killed him, but One Two. He was pictured with a hammer in his hand, Johnny standing off to the side, and then another with a clear image of One Two bashing Pete’s head in.

“Shit,” Eames whispered.

Arthur continued to look through the papers, noting anything that seemed relevant, including the name of an unknown PASIV supplier that Arthur vowed to look up and stop, but at least they knew now where Archy and Johnny were starting their business from. Arthur had no intention of letting them continue after the job was done. This was the illegal world that Arthur wasn’t comfortable with, the world that Cobb and Mal always warned him to stay away from.

Ariadne squeaked from beside Eames, Arthur looked at her in surprise and noticed that she was staring at something behind him. Swinging his head round, he blinked as he saw Johnny crouched over the Lenny Cole projection’s body. He wasn’t touching him, merely looking down at him similar to how a predator looks at its food. The back of his head was caved in from where Eames’s had attacked him; there was a glimpse of brain and bone, which Johnny was studying intensely.  

“Tell me again it’s not a dream,” he whispered. He didn’t look up from the body but Arthur knew he was talking to Eames, and nodded at him to go over.

Eames grimaced, but relented. “Johnny… he’s dead. Leave him be.”

“Of course he’s dead, Uncle Arch, you killed him years ago. Did you really think you were going to trick me? Oh, so cute. You see, this is why it was _so_ easy to leave you behind with the shit work, and the small meaningless stuff, because you are so blind to everything that happens around you. You let ‘Sidney Shaw’, your boss imprison you,” Johnny began cackling, and finally lifted his head to look at Eames, “and you always, fucking always underestimate me. How did that work out for you?” Johnny sauntered over to Eames, back straight, his hands in the air gesturing. “You’re old Uncle Arch, there’s no shame in that. But sometimes there comes a time when you have to put an old dog down.”

Johnny smiled and pulled out a gun from the back of his pants and pointed it straight at Eames. “Come on then. Tell me again. That this isn’t a dream.”

“Whoa, Jesus Christ, Johnny! Don’t do anything you’re going to regret.”

Johnny considered Eames as he raised his hands. Arthur and Ariadne were watching intently from behind, never daring to move, letting Eames handle it.

Johnny gripped the gun tighter and moved his arm higher, but then he smirked and turned the gun to the side of his own head. His eyes were wide and daring as Eames took an impulsive step back.

“Damn Johnny, what the fuck?! Don’t do it!”

“What’s the matter, Archy? Don’t you know? Everything’s a dream. Even when you’re awake, it’s a dream. The only thing that is ever real is the feeling of being so gone, high. Which you took from me when you forced me into the fucking rehab clinic. Not that I blame you, of course. I was a fucking mess, wasn’t I?” Johnny chuckled, swaying slightly on his feet. As quickly as he laughed his face fell and his eyes darkened, “Dare me not to. Come on, Archy, tell me not to.”

“Don’t,” Eames said, shaking his head.

Johnny smiled, and promptly pulled the trigger. Arthur and Eames stared in shock as they heard the bang and watching Johnny’s body fall to the floor, his eyes still open. Ariadne let out a small shriek and yelled, “Quick! We need to leave!”

Only then did Arthur notice how the dream had started crumbling and shaking. Arthur cursed and grabbed the gun that the projection of Lenny dropped and shot Eames, Ariadne, and himself quickly in the head without any forewarning.

 

+++

 

Eames woke up first, gasping large gulps of oxygen as he did. He quickly became aware of the sounds of muffled grunts and of a fist hitting flesh. Lifting his head, barely aware of Arthur and Ariadne waking up beside him, he launched himself at Johnny’s back and threw him off a very bloodied and distorted One Two.

Johnny growled and pushed Eames off, “Handsome Bob. Well… isn’t this a fucking reunion. Mumbles here as well by any chance?”

“Nah, Johnny. Just us, okay.”

Johnny let out a small, high pitched giggle, which he cut off instantly when he suddenly took notice of who was actually in the cell. “Where’s Archy?”

Eames licked his lips in hesitation, “Archy? Why would Archy be here?”

“Fuck off. He was there. That… that was him.”

“Archy isn’t with us, Johnny. You can see that. This has nothing to do with Archy. It’s to do with you. We don’t,” Eames glanced back at Arthur and Ariadne, “we don’t take well to rivalry. And Johnny, you’re getting a bit big for your boots. But as it turns out, you’re just the waster you always were and we obviously don’t have to worry about it.”

Arthur crept forward and laid a hand on Eames’s arm, effectively shutting him up. “What my colleague means is the world of dreaming is small. Too small.”

Johnny snorted, “Are you threatening me?”

“Yes,” Arthur responded, with an extra hard squeeze of Eames’s bicep. Eames turned to Arthur. “Hit him,” Arthur told him.

Eames smiled in response, and swiftly pulled back his fist and smashed it into Johnny’s face. While the well-aimed punch didn’t knock him out, did have him immobile on the floor with a crash.

Eames heard One Two laugh and turned to glare at him where he was slumped against the wall, holding his head in his hands trying to stop the waterfall of blood flowing from it. Eames grabbed his arm and pulled him up. “We are going to have a serious fucking word. I am so ready to kill you.”

One Two looked at him with what Eames assumed was meant to be a menacing and offended look, but he came across more as a wounded puppy that Eames felt the need to hit with a rolled-up newspaper because he pissed on his best shoes.

“Wait, stop him!” Ariadne suddenly yelled, and Eames swung round to see Arthur trying and failing to grab Johnny as he ran out of the unlocked cell door.

“Arthur! Leave him,” Eames called.

“What? Are you mad?”

“He didn’t even do anything. Besides, Archy won’t be very happy. Just… leave him to Archy to deal with. Johnny will be fine. Now he knows the police want him, he’ll stay hidden. They won’t touch him. Archy, on the other hand…”

“Yes, because the only thing that matters is Archy,” Arthur spat.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eames asked incredulously.

Arthur didn’t answer him though, just exhaled loudly and stared at the floor frowning, ignoring Eames’s wide-jawed look.

Ariadne hesitated as she gave them both looks. “We need to get out of here.”

“Yeah,” Arthur agreed, “We do.”

They walked out of the police cell and went back the way they came. When they reached reception, Officer Winston was up on his feet frantically pacing the floor. He rounded on them once he had noticed them. “The fuck?! Was that Johnny fucking Quid that just ran out of there? Are you fucking kidding me? I can’t have that! They’ll think I let him down, I’m the only one on duty, you fuckwads!”

Eames rolled his eyes and shoved past him, still dragging a bleeding One Two by the arm. “Take it up with Archy. I don’t give a fuck.”

By the time they made it back to the hotel, Archy had called Eames no more than three times, and it was clear that despite One Two not letting him see, his nose was definitely broken. It made Eames feel contritely pleased every time he heard a painful wheeze come from One Two’s still-clasped hands.

Ignoring yet again the vibrating phone in his pocket that was undoubtedly Archy, Eames sat One Two down on the bed, grabbed a wad of tissue, and shoved his hands away so he could dab up the blood. “So, you killed the addict waster Pete. Damn, he must really rue the day he met the fucking Wild Bunch. First I beat him up, and then you killed him. Next I’m going to find out that Mumbles stole his favourite teddy bear.”

“What? No, no, I didn’t! Bob, how could you think of me like that, man? I would never. And I mean never—”

“One Two.”

“Okay, fine, I did it. But Johnny made me!”

Eames groaned, “Why? Why, you fucking idiot? Then blame it on Johnny?”

“I had to! He… he would have made me a fucking killer for life. You know that’s not me.”

“What happened, anyway?”

“Pete got antsy. Told Johnny some thug was asking questions about him. Johnny was worried he told someone something. Like someone working for Archy. But then Pete followed me one night whilst I was on the job for Johnny and… well… Johnny saw him and wasn’t pleased. And I guess that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

Eames winced in guilt. _Oops_. Pausing his mothering over One Two’s nose, Eames looked up to find Arthur staring at them. Rather than evading Eames’s gaze Arthur held his eye, and mentioned to him to come closer.

“What are you going to tell Archy?”

“Anything, I guess. Everything… maybe…” Eames frowned; he wasn’t sure if he should tell Archy what he saw in that house, or just the part about Johnny using drugs in dreams. Losing himself in dreams, and constantly reliving the abuse from his step-father. Which has inevitably fuelled this hatred for the man who stood by and let it happen.

Eames grumbled as he felt his phone vibrate once again, and reluctantly answered it.

“What the hell is going on? Winston is freaking out over there!”

“Well, as I’m sure Winston has told you, Johnny got out. Johnny is pissed. Johnny is not—well, no, he is—but he didn’t murder Pete. Johnny has a lot of issues. Like, a fuck load. Some are with you. Look… we found an offshore account that I’m guessing you don’t know about. He’s getting a lot more money out of this dream den thing than you thought. He also isn’t wholly dealing with his addiction, either. Archy, you want my advice? Get him out of dreaming. Completely. It will destroy him, if it hasn’t already.”

Eames heard Archy scoff through the phone, “The drugs did that enough already.”

“Don’t trust him, okay?”

Eames didn’t hear Archy respond; instead, he got the dial tone ringing in his ear.

Eames tutted. “Rude.” Resignedly, he threw his phone down on the hotel bed, narrowly missing Ariadne. He had no doubt that him and the others would be paid, but he couldn’t help but feel as if he failed. They worked out what Johnny was doing, and give Archy what he wanted, whether he realised it or not, and yet… Eames was unsatisfied. He marked the job as a failure, but then he supposed, _that was always going to be inevitable really. Who can win against Archy, Johnny… The Wild Bunch? Maybe I am still Handsome Bob, the driver…_

“You alright?” Arthur asked.

“Yes, of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Good. Because yeah, job done, right?” Ariadne pondered.

“Yeah,” Eames nodded, “Job done.” Eames could see Arthur giving him a sceptical look from the corner of his eye, but he ignored him. Instead he grabbed One Two again and together they left the hotel room and headed towards the Speeler.

Despite that it was nearing two in the morning; the Speeler was still quite busy. It _was_ Saturday now, though, so maybe it wasn’t that unusual.

“Why did you bring us here?”

“Because we need to see… Mumbles!” Eames called.

“Hey! Whoa, One Two, the fuck happened to you?” Mumbles nodded with his cigar. He was around the table with the other boys, playing cards, like usual.

“I punched him,” Eames replied easily.

“Really? Oh,” Mumbles answered, “Good for you, Bob. You joining us?”

“Aye. One game,” Eames nodded, pushing One Two into a seat.

“Wait, wait! How are you all alright with Bob punching me? My nose fucking hurts! So much for being me mates.”

“Now, One, you know we love ya. But we would all be lying if we said we’ve never had an urge to smash your face in,” Mumbles stated, causing One Two to protest as everyone within hearing distance laughed in agreement.

One Two grumbled and turned his back to the majority of the bar, leaning forward to whisper to Eames. “So, what about my… little problem? You know? What if Archy finds out? Or the police keep hounding me?”

“Oh, One Two, am I to do everything? Winston.”

“What?”

“Winston. Archy’s bent cop. The one whose name we know, and who let a bunch of criminals walk into the prison and is responsible for a prisoner—a high-profile one, for that matter—escape?”

One Two’s eyes widened with the realisation and he grinned triumphantly. After a few moments of staring at each other, both One Two and Eames collapsed in laughter, barely able to hold each other up.

“The fuck you ladies laughing at?” called Fred.

“Oi! What’s the fucking joke? Come on tell me, these bastards have been boring me all night,” Cookie moaned, ducking when Fred threw a handful of peanuts at him. Mumbles stayed quiet, and just watched them with a smile, his cigar hanging on his bottom lip. 

Eames leaned to Mumbles’s side and threw his arm around his shoulders, “You know? I really fucking missed you, boyo. But I’m telling you now, if you don’t keep One Two in better check, I might have to move back and kill you.”

“Hardy har-har,” Mumbles retorted, “Like fuck is my job to look after that sack of shit.”

“Oi! I’m right here!” One Two yelled.

“And how we are forever blessed that you are, deary,” Mumbles mocked reaching out a hand to pat him patronisingly on the cheek.

Eames laughed and amongst the noise, whispered into Mumbles’s ear. “I’m not your mother, I know. But I’m telling you this: stop working for Johnny. And Archy, for that matter. I don’t want the next time I come to London be your funeral. Or One Two’s, got it?”

Mumbles gave him a perplexed look, but shrugged and said, “Yeah, alright. Whatever you say, Bob. You know I’ve always listened to you.”

With a final nod, Eames collected up everyone’s cards. “Okay, boys, new game. Real money only. Anyone who’s a cheapskate fuck off.”

“He means you, One Two.” Cookie nudged One Two’s shoulder, giggling.

“Fuck off. I’m good. Just deal already, Bobbo.”

“Alright, alright,” Eames mocked.

“Alright, alright,” Mumbles parroted, followed by Cookie and Fred, and then pretty much the entire bar.

“Fuck the lot of ya!” One Two bellowed to the whole bar, “I’m gonna beat all your arses!”

Eames merely laughed and shook his head. _This is my home._

 

+++

 

By the next day, Ariadne had left for the airport ready to depart back to Paris with a promise of finding regular work in dreaming. Eames and Arthur, though, were still in London.

“So, where are you off to now, then?” Arthur hesitantly asked, surprising Eames.

Eames had been sitting in the hotel’s breakfast room nursing a cup of tea, gazing mindlessly out the window.

“Oh, er, not sure yet. Thinking about staying for a bit. Not sure. At least for now, anyway. Spent the drinking and gambling, I haven’t slept in two nights so…probably not the best time to fly,” Eames chuckled. “You?”

“I was thinking of going stateside for a bit.”

“Ah. Well, say hello to Cobb and the children for me.”

“Will do. I haven’t seen them in a while, so…”

“Yeah,” Eames muttered awkwardly.

Arthur continued to stand by Eames’s table, though he stared at the tabletop rather than Eames himself. Eames watched as an uncharacteristic blush began to spread from up his face and across from his ears.

“…Arthur?”

“Okay, look. You and I both know that I’m not one for this. Whatever this is. I can do flirty meaningless stuff. Though sometimes it does backfire, like with Ariadne. One day I’ll be able to live that down. I think I might have been a bit harsh though.” Arthur paused and waited until Eames kicked the opposite chair out for him to sit. Biting his lip, Arthur asked, “Do you want to get a drink sometime?”

“Really?” Eames smiled, “And here I thought I was getting some big romantic speech.”

“I’m not _that_ into you,” Arthur smiled back, rolling his eyes simultaneously.

“Oh, well…at least you’re a little into me. I think I _deserve_ a speech though, since you rather harshly rejected me once—” Eames powered through Arthur’s protests, “—but if it’s not enough for a speech worthy of a cliché rom-com ending, how about this instead? We have a cup of tea or coffee or, hell, orange juice if you’d prefer, now, and see if we can go, say, two hours without wanting to inflict bodily harm on each other”

“Okay. I can do that. I’ll get you a tea.”

“Oh, you adorable Yanks. My order is a little more complex than milk and no sugar. I’ll get it.”

“Eames, its PG Tips, two spoons of sugar, one of brown, skinny milk. Not enough for it to be white but enough for it not to be black.”

“You know my tea order?”

“Of course I do, dummy,” Arthur snorted. “I am known as the best pointman in the business. Now stay quiet and wait here. Leave and I’ll send the Russian mafia on you.”

“Oh God, no. No more Russians. I’ve had my lifetime worth.”

Arthur raised his eyebrow, “You’ll need to tell me this story.”

Eames smiled, wide and open, “I’ll tell you anything you’d like, Arthur. As long as you get me my tea. Chop-chop, then.”

Arthur groaned through a laugh. “What have I agreed to?”

“You have agreed to a delightful rendezvous with yours truly, and to listen to a very exciting tale of me and the Wild Brunch versus some very, _very_ indestructible Russian gangsters.”

Arthur threw his head back laughing, his dimples winking. “Oh please, I could beat that. I have a tale of me and some Norwegians, vodka, a game of cards, and way too much time on our hands.”

“How about a bet? If my story is better than yours, I choose where we go for this drink. You win, and it’s your venue of choice.”

“Done,” Arthur grunted. “Get ready to book a flight to America.”

“Whatever you say, darling,” Eames winked. “Whatever you say”

 

 

 

THE END


End file.
